


The Dark King's Folly

by spirrum



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, alternative to the movie, and Bog has to attend parties without crashing them, in which the two kingdoms aren't quite worlds apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4255623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time for the annual Spring Ball in the Fields, and of course he's expected to attend, nevermind the fact that he's got about as much patience for fairy celebrations as he has for watching the slow descent of sap down the trunk of a tree. And at the heels of the broken royal engagement that's been the talk of the realm, it's bound to become a painful affair.  </p><p>What Bog doesn't count on, however, is the jilted Princess herself, and that there's more to the Fairy King's court than song and dance. </p><p>A 'what if' fic about what could have happened if the two kingdoms weren't so at odds with one another, and where Bog happened to be present to witness the events of "C'mon, Marianne!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kindred

**Author's Note:**

> Krocatoo is a delight who lets me use her ideas for my own self-indulgent purposes, and so this is for her, another little ‘what if’ fic about a mutual understanding forged under different circumstances than those shown in the movie. I hope you enjoy!

He doesn’t have a mind for parties, and for fairy parties even less so, but as King there are certain expectations to be met – traditions to be upheld, and so on. And for all that their respective kingdoms have very little dealings with one another save a treaty that goes as far back as the reign of Bog’s great-grandfather, his attendance is meant as a sign of goodwill, even if he would rather spend an evening at the whims of his mother’s matchmaking attempts than to spend one more hour at the tender mercies of a species with an internal need to  _sing_  everything.  

He usually tries to worm his way out of these things, but as King you can only avoid so many events before questions start to arise, even if fairies have no concept of ‘too much’, and feel the need to celebrate everything from royal name days to ‘oh look at that, the sun rose again this morning!’ And if too many questions were to be asked, tensions would worsen, and soon they’d be advocating isolationism and then where would they be? And all because the Bog King couldn’t survive one evening in “good company” (his mother’s words, as Bog would never consider a gathering of all the fairies in the realm as anything but troublesome and excessively loud).

Like the one he is currently attending, a ball to herald the arrival of spring, his least favourite time of year, as it were, and an opinion that’s not shared with anyone on this side of the border.

He’s contemplating how long he has to keep up the appearance of enjoying himself when the doors to the banquet hall swing open, admitting the Fairy King, and the dour-faced, eldest daughter – the current talk of the Fields, on account of breaking off her engagement. He’s never been one for gossip, but there are ears in the forest, and it’s in his interest to keep track of the goings-on in the Field’s royal circles. After all, her husband would have been the next King, and Bog would have had to deal with him at one point or another.

Speaking of said fairy, upon the King’s timely arrival, the daffodil-haired chump Bog has been introduced to exactly once at a prior event – the celebration of their engagement, if he remembers correctly (and not exactly fondly, as said chump had been intent on making himself the birth, life and death of the party) – sidles like a rattlesnake out of the crowd.

“Whoa-oh-oh, here I am!”

Bog doesn’t quite manage to stifle the groan.  _Not again._

The princess, though most likely for an entirely different reason, echoes his indignation. “ _Roland!_ ”

It does little to deter the fool, though. “On my knees, again!”

The crowd is starting to gather around the spectacle that’s slowly unfolding, and Bog spares an idle thought to whether or not they’d notice if he conveniently slipped away.

“I’ll do anything, just to make it right!”

“ _Ah’ll_  do anything if yeh stop singing,” he mutters, but no one is looking at him, too busy gauging the princess’ reaction. From where Bog’s standing, though, she looks one wrong word away from chucking him in the fountain.  _Interesting._

If he suspects any threat to his health, though, the blond doesn’t show it, posing a beseeching image indeed as he presents a hand to his former bride.

“C’mon, Marianne!”

And he knows – oh, he knows by the fact that more people are joining in, as though the whole thing has been pre-rehearsed (and he wouldn’t put it past them), that there’s going to be dancing – just before it breaks out, and he doesn’t bother suppressing his irritation now, wondering if he’s going to have to attend yet another engagement party, once the idiot has sufficiently convinced her of the insignificance of his supposed wrongdoing. With the fickleness of fairies, it’s only a matter of time before they’re serenading each other, misdeeds forgiven and forgotten.

Then – “You’ve got a  _lot_  of nerve walking in here.”

The declaration is quietly uttered, but it reverberates through the room, carried by the surprisingly strong resonance of her voice. A Queen’s voice, that – the thought comes, unbidden and without warning, and not without a little bit of embarrassment.

They’re both singing now, but he’s not watching the chump, gaze drawn and held by the spitfire with the distinctly un-fairy like attitude, and a voice that – if he were to be completely honest with himself – wasn’t…entirely unpleasant.

She’s –  _prowling_  is the word for it, Bog decides. An almost goblin-like action, for a species known for their flitting and frolicking. And it gives him some perverse pleasure, watching someone who by fairy standards must be good-looking enough to have been served admiration and affection on a silver platter his whole life, skitter like a cockroach towards the exit.  

Then it’s over, the doors slamming shut with a resounding  _bang!_ , and Bog – Bog can only stare.

“Now  _that_  was fun!”

He almost finds himself vocally agreeing, when the soft “Awkward” that rises to fill the void left by her admission has him swallowing the words.

Throwing her hands up, the princess stalks off, muttering under her breath and with an expression far more suited the dark corners of his kingdom, than the bright and colourful spotlight at the heart of the Fairy King’s court.  

Intrigued quite despite his better judgement, Bog waits for exactly three heartbeats before he follows.

.

.

.

He finds her on one of the balconies, hands braced on the stone balustrade and shoulders tense above the slack fall of her wings, and he takes a moment to question the sanity of his decision. They’ve only exchanged brief words in the past – polite platitudes, as expected of their respective positions, and always in the company of others. They’ve never once talked in private.  

He doesn’t bother concealing his approach – he’s not out to startle her, although he’s aware that in spite of his good intentions, he might end up doing just that.

Hearing his footsteps, she sighs, shoulders slumping with something that smacks of defeat, and that seems entirely unfitting the fairy who’d just vocally and physically humiliated her ex-fiancé in front of her entire court.

“Dad, I don’t want to talk ab–” the question halts on her tongue when she sees that it’s not her father who’s sought her out. “Oh. It’s – you.” Her surprise is evident, but there’s no suspicion, only a flicker of curiosity in her expressive eyes.

A moment passes in which neither of them make a move to say anything, and Bog becomes increasingly aware of his lack of a plan. He’d come to – what? Thank her for not subjecting him to the future (and no doubt disastrous) whims of a truly moronic King?

“Ah saw what yeh did back there,” he says then, and oh, they’re off to a truly awkward start. Bog suppresses the urge to cringe at his own lack of tact.  

But to his bewilderment, she only snorts, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans against the balcony railing, her back to the night sky. A wry smile tugs at her mouth. “Yeah, well. Don’t let them say we don’t know how to throw a party.”

He doesn’t know who he surprises most with the bark of laughter – her or himself, but it’s out before he can drag it back to the dark corner it crawled out from. Clearing his throat, Bog attempts a diversion.

“So,” he says. “How, uh, are yeh holding up after…that?”

If she’s surprised at his show of concern, it’s quickly snuffed out by the annoyance that flickers to life on her face, and for a brief second Bog wonders if he’d said the wrong thing.

But then she says something he doesn’t expect. “You know…I feel pretty good, actually.” At the raise of his brows, a strange smile crosses her face. “Is that bad?”

He’s one poorly made decision away from blurting out that he’d prefer her bad to whatever is considered  _good_  around these parts.

“Ah think you’re entitled, considering the circumstances,” he says instead, choosing his words with care.  

“You heard about that, huh.” Shaking her head, she expels a breath that holds more than just irritation. There’s loss there, too – perhaps not for the blond fool himself, but for the love that had been at her fingertips, only to vanish like pixie-dust. “News travels, I guess.”

“An unfortunate consequence of being royalty,” Bog drawls. “Subjects talk.”  

She looks at him then, but where he expects to find her eyes settling on some of his less-than-appealing features, he’s surprised to find her focused solely on his eyes. And when realization dawns on her face, entirely unintended on his part, he’s suddenly tempted to vault himself off the balcony.

But – “You’re talking from experience,” she says simply, and there’s no mockery there, nor any barely concealed disgust that a creature such as him could ever have experienced love, even if it was only to be scorned by it. “You been cheated on, too?” And it’s not asked from maliciousness or even pity, but rather from the heart of a kindred spirit, but the words cut through the defences he’s taken such care to maintain like they’re spider-silk, leaving him exposed and reeling from the unexpected assault.  

But if she understands the impact of her words, she doesn’t show it, only looks at him with that honest curiosity.

“Ah, not exactly,” he starts, and doesn’t know what to say beyond that, desperately grappling to find some sort of middle ground between clamping his mouth shut and dropping everything at her feet. He’s terrifyingly tempted to do the latter, and not for the first time since stepping out onto the balcony, Bog wonders if he’s not better off getting as far away from her as his wings will allow.

But she doesn’t pry, and her look only softens. “It’s okay,” she says, holding up her hands, a gesture of peace. “I didn’t mean to be nosy.” She laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. “I know all about having my private life on display, and it’s not exactly what I’d call  _fun_.”

Letting her hands fall, palms pressing against her thighs, she tilts her head. “Can I ask something else, then?”

He has no idea what she could possibly want to know, but he accepts her request, regardless. “Go ahead.”

She hesitates only a moment, as though sorting through her words. “Did you…did you actually come out here to see if I was okay?” she asks then.

He could lie. He could tell her he’d just been looking to get away from the festivities, to get some space to breathe, and she’d probably believe him. His dislike of public events is by no means a secret.

He could lie, but he doesn’t.

“Aye,” he tells her instead. Then, with less confidence, “You, ah, looked like – I thought perhaps – if yeh want to be alone, I’ll–”

“No!”

The exclamation surprises them both, and then she looks away, tucking her hair behind her ear in what he thinks might actually be a nervous gesture. “I mean…I don’t mind the company,” she says. “And…you’re not here asking me to make a public apology or anything, so…”

Bog snorts. “Another public beating, perhaps,” he says, mouth curving with an odd smile that slithers out of some dark place he hasn’t touched in years.

She laughs at that, a breathless sound that for all its softness, slips between the cracks in his defence, to something that  _lurches_  in response.

“You know, you’re not what I expected,” she says then, amusement twinkling in her eyes.

He raises a brow at that. “And what exactly were yeh expecting, Princess?” But there’s no insult to be found in her words, nor any displeasure in his response.

“Marianne,” she says. “I don’t want to be princess right now. Princesses aren’t supposed to cause public spectacles,” she sighs. Then she shrugs, lifting her eyes back to meet his. “And I don’t know what I expected. We haven’t exactly talked.”

“Nae, we haven’t,” he agrees. “Perhaps we ought ta remedy that.”

She smiles, a clever quirk of the corners of her mouth that draws his gaze to her lips. “You sure you’re up for it? I might break into song, and I know how much you hate that.”

It would seem his distaste for that particular custom had not gone unnoticed, Bog realizes. And he doesn’t know what spurs him on; he hasn’t had anything to drink, but before the words are even completely off her tongue he’s blurting,

“I duin hate  _your_  singing.”

Her eyes widen, large and beckoning, and he can tell the declaration has caught her off guard. “O-oh.” She hesitates a moment, as though he’s about to pull the words back. Then when he doesn’t – “Thank you,” she adds softly.

Bog is having trouble remembering what to do with his hands. Having forsaken the staff for the occasion, on account of it making him more ‘threatening’, he’s growing increasingly more aware of the appendages where they hang, awkwardly at his sides.

She pushes away from the balcony then, drawing his attention from his posture to her face as she takes a tentative step towards him. First one, then another, until she’s standing close enough to touch. It’s the closest anyone has dared all evening, but she doesn’t look afraid that he might snatch her up and eat her. Instead there’s something else in her eyes, something darker than simple curiosity and that he can’t quite make sense of, like she’s testing some boundary – testing  _him_ , but for whatever reaction Bog can’t even hope to guess.

She tilts her head then – the gesture does little to lessen the sheer distance between their statures – but all at once her intentions become clear.

Bog wonders if he hasn’t forgotten how to breathe.

Reading his realization on his face, fear flickers across her features, and he knows that expression – knows it because he’s felt every pull of muscle in his own face, prompted by the thought that he’s overstepped a line that was not meant to be crossed. And she’s about to duck away, he can tell even before she does it, an apology at the tip of her tongue–

“Don’t,” he says, and finds he doesn’t know quite what he’s asking.  _Don’t feel bad. Don’t think you’ve offended me somehow._

_Don’t stop._

She sucks in a breath, but doesn’t move to leave, or to step away from him. They’re standing very close now, close enough for him to feel that odd warmth that all fairies exude, rising from her soft skin. “I just,” she murmurs. “I just want to feel–”

“Something,” he says, and her eyes widen. The idle thought strikes him that her actions in the ballroom will mean nothing if they’re caught now; the scandal will be enough to shake the foundations of the entire realm.  

But her eyes are impossibly bright in the moonlight, and though she’s no beauty by the standards of his people she’s a sight to behold now, awash with silver light, and he thinks of the dark soil of his home, of belladonnas, poisonous but lovely in their own right. Not a jewelled flower in the crown of the Fairy Court, but a wild, thriving thing, meant for tougher conditions than the gentle fields of her upbringing.

His touch against her neck, unbearably soft beneath his fingers, doesn’t make her recoil, and her pulse leaps a frantic staccato against the press of his palm when he leans down. He hears the hitch of her breath – anticipation for what’s to come; a liberty he can’t believe he’s been granted, least of all by someone like her.

Her eyes fluttering closed is what nearly does him in – a show of trust so vivid he has to hold himself back from just pushing her back against the balcony and–

"Marianne?"

They leap apart so fast and so violently she actually knocks herself back against the railing, hissing under her breath at the impact, but swallowing the sound at the last moment as the speaker steps through the arching doorway.  

“There you are! Dad’s going  _nuts_  looking for you – he’s thinking about asking Roland for help, and considering what you did last time, I don’t–”

She catches sight of Bog then, standing on the far side of the balcony, at an almost comical distance away from either of them. The younger princess blinks, obviously not having expected to find anyone but her sister, but surprise is all she shows, seeming to find nothing else amiss. “Um. Hello.”

Bog wonders if he has any chance at making it out of the kingdom without the Fairy King calling for war, when Marianne steps forward. “It’s a good thing you found me first then, sis, or I’d have thrown him off the balcony. You know me.” She tries to laugh, but it sounds breathless even to Bog’s ears.

But the younger fairy only rolls her eyes. “That’s what I told him.” Then her brows furrow, and Bog’s heart plummets to his stomach at the next words that fall from her mouth, “Uh, Marianne, are you okay? You look flushed.”

Unlike him, however, Marianne is quick on her feet. “It’s the wine! I, uh, I had a few glasses. Because, you know, the whole Roland thing.” She’s very pointedly not looking at him now, but even in the dark, he can make out the rosy colour that’s stretched across her cheeks.

Her sister only groans. “Dad is so  _not_  gonna be happy.”

“Uh, right. Yes. So, um, could you just tell him that I…went to bed?”

Her sister doesn’t look like she’s buying the whole story, but sparing Bog a last, searching glance, she relents with a sigh. “Fine. But you owe me one.”  

Her expression lets slip some of her relief. “Whatever you want, sis.”

With a shake of her head, the smaller fairy makes to take her arm. “Come on, I’ll help smuggle you back to your room. Bye, uh, King Bog.”

“Bog King,” he repeats without thinking, and catches the flash of a grin on Marianne’s face before she’s pulled towards the door.

“Right. Bog King. Please excuse my sister, she’s usually better behaved.” Giving her sister a look, she adds, “And  _sober_.”

They share a look at that, and regret swells within him. Even if her actions had not been a result of any kind of drink, he won’t get his hopes up believing she’ll be harbouring the same feelings upon their next meeting.

“Oh, I duin’t doubt it,” he says instead, and hopes the bitterness that sits like a weight on his tongue does not convey as well as he fears.

Her sister appears oblivious to any underlying sentiment, but Marianne’s face falls, and holding onto his gaze until she no longer can’t, Bog wonders (hopes, he  _hopes_ , dangerous though the feeling is), that maybe he isn’t the only one with regrets.

Then they’re gone, leaving him alone on the balcony, the remnants of anticipation drumming a melancholy tune against a patchwork heart, and the feel of her skin burning hot against his palm.


	2. Kindling

Bog can’t remember having attended the Elf Festival since before he took the throne, finding it a somewhat unnecessary effort, on account of his usual presence at the Spring Ball that always fell on the week prior to the event.

And letting his eyes take in the merriment, the cheerful lights and the rows of dancing elves, the music drifting towards him (even the soft creak and whine of the ferris wheel manages to convey some bizarre sense of gaiety), Bog concludes that he’s not been missing out.

His attendance this year would not be expected, hence his rather surreptitious position in the shadow of one the elf dwellings, a safe distance away from the festivities. If anyone were to catch sight of him, questions would no doubt be asked – questions Bog isn’t even sure he knows the answers to himself.

He’d come – why had he come? Because in the week that had passed since the ball he hadn’t been able to shake the thought of her; the memory of her skin etched into his palm, and the sight of her eyes drifting shut the first thing he’d see when closing his own. He’d been turning the events of the night over and over in his mind, attacked it from all possible angles – the trust she’d shown him, and that soft laughter that his words – that something  _he’d_  said – had drawn from her lips.  

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. For all he knows – for all the things he can’t forget – she could easily have changed her mind, recalling the events a vast deal differently than he. A mistake never to be repeated, perhaps, and then what is he doing here, but courting disaster?

He catches sight of her then, having been led towards the dancing elves by her father. Despite the uplifting melody of the song, she’s executing the steps with a staggering lack of enthusiasm that has Bog’s mouth curving quite despite himself. He thinks about the sharp humour she’d let slip that night, and the clever twinkle in her eye. Such a far cry from the figure she cuts now, trudging along to the beat with the zeal of the truly miserable, and Bog considers his luck. His attendance, at least, is by choice.

But between one lacklustre step and the next her expression changes, irritation taking hold of her features, a sight a great deal more preferable than the sullen press of her mouth, but then Bog catches sight of what she’s looking at.

“Oh, yeh’ve got to be  _joking_.”

The blond twat is there, a striking figure amidst the crowd of gathered elves, but Marianne spares him only a single, scathing glance before making her way over to her sister. Bog doesn’t catch the words exchanged between them, but in the next moment she’s kicking off the ground, lilac wings spread to vault her into the air.

Something like disappointment rises within him at her departure, but to his surprise she doesn’t head towards the castle, coming instead to settle on a rooftop not far from where he’s standing.

It’s about as good an opportunity he’s likely to get, plan or no plan, and he only needs a moment to consider the wisdom of his decision -- the thrum of something along his spine that makes his wings twitch with anticipation, and not a small amount of anxiety. On the balcony he’d approached her without thinking, at the mercy of some whim he still can’t properly explain, but there’s more at stake now than a potentially awkward conversation; more at stake than his bedamned pride.

He could turn away – could go back to the dark depths of the forest and she’d never even know he’d been there. He could swallow the foolish hope that he might not be the only one still thinking about the night of the ball. It’s by far the safer path, already well-trodden and familiar. Bog knows that path in his sleep, and it would be all too easy falling back on old habits of self-preservation, if only to keep his defences intact and his heart untouched, though he fears the latter may be a battle lost already.  

In the end, he takes his chances on a wild gamble.

Pushing away from the wall, he keeps to the shadows, old friends that wrap around him with ease as he weaves between the houses until he can spot her, sitting just on the rooftop above him. He takes a moment to consider her, wings folded against her back and her arms crossed over her chest with that wilful pride that makes her so striking, even shrouded as she is with the night’s velvet cloak.  

“An odd place ta celebrate a party,” he says then, making sure to keep his voice low, but loud enough for her to catch.  

She startles at the remark, too busy quietly seething to have made note of his presence, and her hand flies to the pommel of her sword with a speed that makes his eyes widen a fraction.  _Impressive._

Her eyes find his then, and – she relaxes, hand falling from the blade as the tension bleeds from her shoulders, and whatever clever remark Bog had prepared next lies forgotten at the back of his tongue, caught and held by the pleasure that crosses her face.

Then she’s sliding from the rooftop, wings spread to catch her descent, before she comes to land before him, feet light and graceful on the hard ground underfoot.  

“Hey,” she says, her voice a quiet murmur, nearly stolen by the muffled music drifting from the heart of the festival. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. You don’t usually show up to this kind of thing.”

Bog attempts a careless shrug. “You’re right. One party each spring is usually enough for me.”

The soft intake of breath is so quiet he almost doesn’t catch it. “So what made you change your mind?” she asks.

 _You_ , he wants to say – the word sits, a drop of honey on his tongue, but the promise of a bitter aftertaste makes him keep it there. He doesn’t know how she’ll react if he tells her that she’s been all he’s thought about – that even now he can’t help but remember the flutter of her pulse beneath his hand; her softly parted lips. The dark goblin King, spellbound by a fairy princess – it beggars belief.

“I…duin know,” he says at length.

Something flickers in her eyes – disappointment? He almost doesn’t dare hope, but she’s quick to collect herself, and she’s never once dropped her gaze form his. “So, Bog King–”

“Bog,” he says, then at her widened eyes he’s quick to add, “Just – Bog, is enough. Ah – formalities are not necessary.”

Despite his fumbling explanation, the small gesture seems to please her. “Bog,” she says, tongue wrapping around the lone syllable with a care that he’s never heard before, and that has his treacherous heart constricting behind his ribcage. “I, um–” she clears her throat. “I’ve been thinking…about that night. On the balcony.”

He tries not to let on how something  _jumps_  within him at the words. “Yes?”

There’s less than an arm’s length between them, standing there in the shadows of the house, and in the spring’s pale chill she’s warm, a bright and brilliant glare stubbornly working its way into every dark crack and crevice that he’s tried so long to keep out of the light.

A slender hand is at her temple, plucking at her hair, and she’s averted her eyes now, gaze focused on something at their feet. “I just…I wanted you to know that I did…feel something,” she says then, looking up to find his eyes again, and if her words hadn’t already knocked the breath from him, the sincerity on her face would have done the trick.

“And I don’t – know what that means,” she continues, the words stumbling together and over one another as she makes to explain, to fill the silence when he doesn’t respond. “I’ve been going over the whole thing in my head, and I don’t know what you’re thinking about all of this, or if you – and I might be just another stupid fairy to you, but I just want you –  _need_  you to know that I can’t…stop…thinking…” Breathless rambling trailing off into murmurs, whatever expression she finds on his face now, it’s enough to steal the last of her words from her tongue.  

Her back connects with the wall behind her then, and she starts, unaware that they’ve been moving, his slow and deliberate approach met by her own, mindless steps as she’d talked, until there’s barely space enough to breathe between them, and they’re truly hidden beneath the overhanging cover of the roof.  

He isn’t touching her, carefully gauging her reaction, despite her words ringing loud in his ears. At the balcony she’d been the one to make the first advance, that first tentative step that had started it all, that had turned their calm waters wild and unpredictable, but now he’s the one who’s moving, slow, careful steps until she’s pressed between him and the wall.

And she’s such a wee thing, those slender limbs and the pale slope of her neck foreign features to one used to stronger, darker hides; claw-tipped fingers and wicked spurs. But when her hands come to rest against his chest, a gesture that nearly has him flinching in response to the surprising gentleness of the touch, Bog is no longer thinking of the things that mark her as different. Instead he lets himself take in the sound of her breath, and the desire that kindles in the heart of her eyes. And she’s looking at him still, eyes heavy and hooded finding pathways along his face, untouched for so long by a gaze like that – at once both searching and reverent.

Then her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip, claiming his attention and drawing his eyes to her mouth.  

It would be so easy, he thinks then, for the shadows to wrap them up; to hide them from the light and the merriment of the festival – to take what she’d give him and to give her everything in return, her eyes the dark of the earth and her lips parted with that sinful breath, and he thinks that this is what it’s supposed to be like,  _this is what it’s supposed to feel like_. Not like he’d rather keep his guard up and his heart concealed, but that he’d want to give it to her, rotten, patchwork thing that it is.

The hands on his chest shift then – sliding up far enough for her fingers to to curl around his collar, protruding in a way that marks his shape as worlds apart from her own, but Marianne doesn’t seem to spare it much thought, too busy discovering the many bumps and ridges that mark him who he is, than to question their strangeness.  

And it would be so easy, Bog thinks, to be greedy; to push past that boundary they’re treading so dangerously, and devour her with all the savage ferocity that is the rumoured way of his kind.

But he’s not about to rush in – no, he wants to remember this; wants to remember the way she curves against him, that unbearable softness moulding against his harder hide with the sinuous arch of her back, and her touch, feather-light where it falls like a sigh against his throat – an intimacy he has granted no one else in long years.

She’s near fever-warm now, exposed skin flushed pink where he grips her arms, and her breath a throaty rasp in his ears, a hot pant mingling with his own in the space that remains between them. And there’s a tremble to her fingers where she grips him back,  _tugging_  now with an impatience that has his smile curling, a feral thing that etches a dark promise against her jaw.

“Oh,  _Marianne_?”

She groans, the sound so close he can almost taste it, and despite the underlying annoyance it has something hot and sharp shooting into the pit of his stomach.

She drops her forehead to his chest, the heaving breath drawn through her nose shuddering through him–

–and then she’s drawing away, and defeat burns a foul taste on his tongue as Bog makes to slip further into the shadows, and away from sight.

Running a hand through her hair, Marianne tries to catch her breath, but when she calls out into the dark there’s a tremble in her voice that betrays some of her attempted calm. “What do you want, Roland?”

Bog knows it’s probably in his best interest to leave – to go back to the forest before the festival ends and someone discovers him lurking among the elfin dwellings. But when the blond swaggers into the space they’d previously occupied, something holds him back – a drumming of something like suspicion against his veins that has him lingering.

“I’ve got something for you, Buttercup,” comes the thick drawl, an utterly self-satisfied lilt that has Bog registering that  _something is wrong_  a second before he catches sight of the pink bottle in the fairy’s hand, softly illuminated by that unnatural light he’d recognize anywhere. Only primrose-petals could make a potion like that, a practice that’s long since been decreed forbidden, both in the Forest and the Fields.

But there he is, the shiny fool, with a bottle of what is undeniably a love potion in his hand.

By the furrow of her brow, Marianne has caught sight of it as well, but she doesn’t step back, oblivious to its contents and the danger posed despite its deceptive appearance. “What’s that?”

He grins, all blunt teeth and molten charm as he uncaps the bottle. “Oh, just a little something that’s going to make things right again. So sorry it had to come to this, Marianne.”

Fear pushes against Bog’s chest – a vicious, ugly feeling that threatens to swallow him whole, and that carves images into his mind, of those wild, dark eyes trained on the fairy before her, but crinkling at the corners with a docility that’s wrong, it’s all wrong, it’s not  _her_ , and he could take her away so easily, the knowledge is staggering in its certainty. Memories of his own mishap with the same potion are quick to follow, and the truth burrows like roots in his heart – the realization that there’s no chance it wouldn’t work this time, with her ex-fiancé looking like he does.

The fear is a potent thing, but it is anger that drives him forward – that lurches within him with enough force to physically  _push_  him out of the shadows as the scheming tosser lifts the hand holding the bottle–

“ _NO!_ ”

Within the span of one heartbeat he’s put himself between them, and the blond draws the bottle back, shock erupting across his face at the unexpected interruption.  

Marianne’s confusion is bright on her face when Bog moves to put her behind him, wings flaring with outright threat, but Roland doesn’t step back. Instead he straightens, rolling his shoulders in a show of shaking off his surprise.  

“King Bog,” he says, but doesn’t quite manage to suffocate his bewilderment. It’s an oddly satisfying sight.  

“Bog  _King_.”

He waves him off. “Whatever. Bog King, please step aside. I have some  _unfinished business_ with my future bride.”

“Future  _what_ –” her shriek is so indignant the words are lost before they’re completely off her tongue, and he can feel the press of her against his back, small frame pushing to get past him and livid when he prevents her from doing so. “Bog, let me  _go_ –!”

Her ex-fiancé looks at the two of them then, the easy intimacy in their closeness that’s too new to properly conceal, and realization – and not a small amount of horror – dawns on his face.

“Marianne, you’re not–” but he doesn’t finish, only takes in the sight of them, and the dark corner they’d claimed for themselves. And for one terrifying moment Bog is certain he’s about to call for the guard.

But then he smiles – a knowing curl of the lips that promises something far worse.  

“Oh, I see what this is,” he says, pointing to the two of them. “You’re getting back at me.” He chuckles, but there’s no good humour in it, only a bitter amusement that slithers into the quiet. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t expect something like this, Buttercup, but I didn’t think you’d take such…” He motions to Bog, and shudders for effect. “ _Drastic_  measures. But I get it, you’ve had your revenge. Now we’re even.”

The words strike Bog, first as ridiculous, but then the previously spitting fairy at his back goes terrifyingly still.

“Though I’ve got to hand it you, Marianne,” Roland continues, cheerfully unperturbed by the shift in the mood. “That’s quite the risk to take just for a little payback. I mean, what if I hadn’t showed up? How long would you have kept up this…charade?” Waving the bottle at the two of them, he looks torn between disgust and some kind of perverse intrigue.

Marianne still hasn’t said anything.

Bog turns to face her then, confusion warring with disbelief, before finally giving way to understanding – cold and unforgiving as it climbs like early frost along his veins.

Of course –  _of course._  Jilted by her lover, whose good looks were nothing short of legendary, the ultimate revenge would be to pay him back by doing something that would be considered a blatant slight to his greatest virtue.  

Like pretending at attraction towards the most hideous creature in the realm.

And he feels a right fool, then, for thinking even for a second that someone like her could ever possibly hope to feel anything but disgust for someone like him. That he could have been so blinded by her large, beguiling eyes so as not to see what lay beneath – that all along he’d only been a pawn in a game; a game for fickle, love-scorned fairies. She hadn’t allowed him to take his time from any desire to prolong their embrace – she’d been waiting for the guy to show up.

And the thought strikes him then that perhaps her disappointment at their interruption on the balcony had not been for the interruption itself, but because they were discovered by the wrong person.

“You played me,” he says, but for all that he grapples for anger, it’s hurt that he finds, and hurt that coats his words rough and raw when he speaks them.

Marianne opens her mouth, but no words fall from her lips – no words to prove him wrong, or even an apology for the consequences of her actions. Her ex-fiancé might be the one armed with a love potion, but her deception had been no less selfish, and no less uncaring of the damage it could cause.

“Bog–” she croaks, but he’s already moving, turning away from the naked anguish on her face. Fury gives him renewed conviction, and before he’s had a chance to prepare for the attack, Bog delivers a swift blow to the smug blond, putting more weight behind it than he usually would and revelling silently when he doubles over from the impact.

Fingers curling around the neck of the bottle, he snatches the potion from the fairy’s fingers. “Yeh won’t be needing this.”

“ _Bog_!”

Her voice has regained some of its strength, and he turns towards her where she stands, face marred with a hurt so convincing he could almost believe it to be real.

But he won’t allow himself to fall for her deception – not again. If she had not counted on the guilt, he would not help assuage it.

When he turns to leave, her hands reach to stop him. “Bog, wait–”

He rounds on her, then – nose almost pressing against hers as he towers above her, and she nearly chokes on her breath in surprise.

“I wouldn’t follow me if I were you,  _Princess_ ,” the snarl is thick, not with a threat but a promise, and for the briefest of moments, genuine fear sparks in her eyes.

He doesn’t look at her as he takes off, doesn’t so much as glance back as he makes for the sky, the potion in hand and the music of the festival curling mellow tunes through the night, to trail at his back like gently grasping fingers. He hears the call of his name, her voice a broken rasp, but he allows it to die on the breeze.

Along with the last, fraying tatters of the hope he’d carried with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part about Bog's character that's so quick to jump to the worst conclusions breaks my heart every time I watch the film, so of course I had to include it in this.


	3. Broken Briar Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little heads up on the rating: it's tiptoeing the line between T and M with this chapter, but since it's nothing overtly explicit I'm still a little on the fence about changing the rating for the whole story. Other than that, I hope you enjoy!

Her regret has never tasted more bitter than when watching the dark claim back its King, hands slack at her sides with a helplessness to which she’s never felt the like, and disbelief a slowly creeping cold across her skin.  

Then she’s rounding on Roland, fingers grasping the handle of her sword in a white-knuckled grip as anger swells a cresting wave within her, and she’s moving without thinking – without considering what she’s doing, the tip of her blade humming its keening song as it cleaves through the air, aimed for that stupid,  _grinning_ –

“Marianne!”

Dawn’s face appears in her path, and it’s a testament to her reflexes that Marianne manages to halt her advance in time, rearing back with such force something  _pulls_  in her arm, but she won’t cry out – not here, not after this, not in front of–

“Roland,” she says, and there’s something dark in her voice, breathless with fury, and she can’t remember ever having been this angry, not even on her wedding day when she’d found him with someone else. She’d been hurt then – she’d had her heart broken, but it had been her own hurt, her own broken heart. Now the look on Bog’s face is all she can think about, betrayal etching sharp lines into his previously smiling features, and the thought strikes like a blow to the gut, making her feel light-headed and short of breath as though from a physical brawl.

Her thoughts are a whirlwind – the memory of his grip on her arms a cold thing in the sudden absence of his touch, and her heart a hard and constricting weight in her chest, thorn-wrapped with the knowledge of what she’d let happen.

“ _Hey_.” And there are hands reaching for hers then, soft but insistent in their own clenching grip, and her sister’s voice is a clear brook’s trickle in the madness of her thoughts. “Marianne. Look at me.”

She does and Dawn – Dawn isn’t looking at her with confusion like she expects, but an odd determination Marianne has only ever seen her apply to slipping out of their father’s notice to chat up the castle guard.

“Dawn, I–” But when she speaks her voice comes out as a rasp, barely recognizable as her own. “Dawn, I’ve got to–”

“Go after him,” her sister says simply, and Marianne can only gape.  

“What?”

Blue eyes roll heavenward. “You’re so thick sometimes it’s unbelievable. I said  _go after him._ ”

Something akin to mortification makes her sound oddly shrill. “Dawn, you–”

“Figured it out, yeah. Like it was hard, with how you two were acting out on that balcony. I mean, it was so  _obvious_.”

“And you’re not–” And she doesn’t know what she’s asking.  _You’re not angry? Disgusted?_

_Absolutely mortified?_

“Marianne,” Dawn says, and it’s their mother’s voice, though her sister doesn’t know it; had been too young to know it, the stern but fond ‘it’s time for you to listen to  _me_  now’ tone that Marianne only vaguely remembers and that she’d always thought she’d been the one to inherit. “If he makes you smile like you did at the ball, then that’s the only thing I care about.” And there’s no revulsion to be found in her sister’s expression, only a gentle sincerity, punctuated by her honest admission.

Marianne’s face falls. “I messed up, Dawn.”

Hands grip her shoulders, and Dawn only smiles. “Then go fix it. I’ll deal with Roland,” she says. “ _And_  Dad.”

“Come on now, Dawn. Marianne.” A chuckle follows, one that would have turned her knees weak once, but that only makes her stomach turn now. “Let’s be reasonable–”

Sparing a glance at the fairy whose sole purpose in life appears to be to unravel her own, Marianne lifts her sword. Her sword-arm still smarts from Dawn’s interruption, but the warning is clear in the gesture as she points it at Roland.

“Meddle in my affairs again, and I am  _not_  going to be so kind next time.” And not giving him a chance to respond – to open his mouth and say anything else, because she feels like she might snap if he does – she strings the blade at her hip.  

“You’ll hold down the fort?” she asks Dawn. “Make sure he doesn’t say anything to Dad?”

Dawn nods, eyes curving at the corners with a smile that promises nothing good, for either Roland or their father. “I told you I’ll handle it.”

Pulling her sister close, Marianne draws her courage from the gesture, both the physical embrace and her approval, unasked for but granted regardless. “ _Thank you_.”

Then she’s off, kicking off from the ground and into the night sky, the cool spring breeze a shiver along her wings as it carries her towards the forest, looming dark and foreboding in the far distance.

She’s never ventured there alone before, and only once as part of a delegation from her father’s court, when she’d been young and too busy clinging to her mother’s skirts to make much of the curling vines and the thick, thorny foliage of the Goblin King’s home. Not unlike his son, Bog’s father had not been the sort to host celebrations of any kind, and so any visits to the Dark Forest from the Fields were strictly diplomatic events.

But it welcomes her back now, older but perhaps not much wiser, seeking passage between the briars and the ferns without a sure knowledge of which direction she’s heading, following the pale light of the moon where she can spot it between the branches climbing overhead.  

Her passage is not painless, hindered as she is by a terrain she doesn’t know – spidersilk webs and fell things reaching out from the dark, to lead her off her path. Her wings tangle, suddenly over-large and awkward with their soft and waxy nature, not made for the depths and the barbed heart of the forest. But she pushes forward regardless, regret and the desire to make right the one she’d wronged giving her strength when the dark threatens to swallow her up, though she falters more than once and fear claws with gripping fingers at her throat at every turn in the path. It’s the look on his face that drives her – the hurt in his eyes, and how easy it had been for him to believe in her deception. The thought of what might have caused such a penchant for distrust is not a good one, and it makes her hands clench with an anger that surprises her, and that makes her conviction a desperate one.

It’s almost become too dark for her to make out passageways through the shrubbery when she finally spots it – the dwelling she’s been searching for, rising from the shadows; an odd, misshapen structure that juts towards the dark canopy above. But it’s the skeletal maw marking its entrance that claims her gaze, and that has her stopping a good ways off. She’d been so busy chasing after him she hadn’t stopped to think that Bog may have taken precautions, to hinder any unforeseen visitors from her kingdom. If he feared Roland would go to her father, or that he would come himself, it would be the logical thing to do. And even if he had not taken such measures, there’s still the possibility that she would be turned away at the door if she were to announce herself, as a proper Princess should.

But it’s been a long time since Marianne has felt like a proper princess, and so she settles for the next best thing.

The skylight comes as a surprise – a weakness in an otherwise impenetrable architecture that she had not counted on, before the light of the moon revealed its existence in a gleam of silver-blue, to beckon her close. It’s a risk, and by no means a small one, but she’s moving before she’s even completely thought her plan through, sword in hand and heart in her throat as she soars high above the castle, gathering momentum.

Then, the pommel of her weapon aimed downwards, Marianne lets herself fall. 

The glass shatters upon impact, shards flying as she drops through and into the castle interior – to what turns out to be the throne room, as she comes to learn when her blade connects with something hard, sending a shudder up her arms and a resounding  _twang_  bouncing off the walls.

Her intention had not been to attack, but he’d deflected her descent as such, and with a grunt the shove of his staff sends her vaulting backwards, to land on unsteady feet, shifting her footing at the last second to avoid slipping on the rock underfoot.  

That she’s surprised him is evident, and if it weren’t for the present circumstances, she’d have revelled in having caught him so visibly off guard.

Her breath forcing its way past her lips, Marianne swallows past the lump in her throat. “You–” she begins, breathless. “Really should rethink your entrance.” She figures she may have laughed, but for the look on his face. “Maybe go for something a little more inviting.”

Bog is standing before the throne, staff still held at the ready from her sudden ambush, but he makes no other move to attack.

“I have nae issued an invitation,” he drawls, and though she’s struck by the chill present in his words, Marianne holds her ground. “So if yeh wouldn’t mind leaving, and preferably the way yeh came.” He nods to the skylight, before turning to retake his seat.  

Huffing out a breath, Marianne lowers her own weapon. “So, what – that’s it? One misunderstanding, and I don’t even get a chance to explain myself?”

Bog snorts at that, glancing over his shoulder at her. “I don’t  _need_  yer excus–”

“They’re not excuses!” she snaps, voice tearing through the word before he can speak it. “Roland was lying – nothing he said was true! If you would just listen–”

“There’s nothing yeh could say that I’d want to hear, Princess,” Bog says, righting his staff in a move that is so clearly a dismissal, it steals her breath. “Now take your leave, before I have my guards  _escort_  you out.”

The words ring clear between them, and she knows them – she knows them because she has spoken these same words herself.

_You’ve got a lot of nerve walking in here._

But no shame lingers in the wake of his dismissal – only anger swells now, a wild thing in her breast. Anger, because she’s being treated like she’d treated Roland, unwilling to listen to his excuses and justifications of his _one little mistake._ But Roland’s mistake had been to betray her, intentionally and with a remorse that only reached as far as the loss of his future position. She would never do to anyone what Roland had done to her – to betray someone’s trust in such a way. But as far as the King before her is concerned, she has done just that.  

And all at once, that lingering regret gives way to fury – yields under the weight of her frustration like the broken skylight above, and it’s with a roar surging up from the pit of her stomach that she draws her blade back–

–and launches herself at the Bog King.

His staff swings to block her attack in time, the sound of their weapons connecting singing a shrill tune through the throne room, and the last note has not yet died before she’s moving again, a flurry of blows that strike with too much intent to be anything close to playful.

“Don’t you –  _dare_  – compare me to –  _him_!” And she’s shouting with each blow, the words pulled from a dark place within herself. “I am  _nothing_  like him!”

Kicking off, she lunges towards him, the tip of her sword gleaming white in the light of the moon as she brings it down in a wide, cutting arc, only to have it blocked by the staff, before his next shove has her flying backwards again.

Bog isn’t speaking, and she tries to catch his eyes – tries to claim them amidst the blows, though he avoids her gaze like it’s a weapon in its own right.

“The things he said – I would never do that to anyone,” she says, spinning once to land a staggering strike against the staff, the shudder from the impact racing up her arm and her pulled muscle, to make her hiss through her teeth. But she’s too angry to think about the pain – to angry to think about anything but convincing him that she had not been using him to get back at Roland.

“I would never do that to  _you_ ,” she breathes as she leaps back, ducking to avoid the sweep of his weapon. “Bog, I know what it looked like but I wasn’t–”

Another breath and he’s close – close enough to touch, and the staff is suddenly at her back, his grip on it fencing her in, and when he speaks it’s with a growl that erupts like shivers across her skin.

“You’re saying yeh weren’t waiting for him to show up?”

He’s using his height against her, towering above her, as close as they’d been at the festival, but there’s nothing alluring in the way she tilts her chin now, and not anticipation but frustrated disbelief that makes her voice breathless. “You sought  _me_  out! I didn’t even know you were going to be there!”  

“You saw an opportunity!” he thunders, making her take an involuntary step back, only to find her escape hindered by the staff pressing against her spine. And he’s close – oh he’s so close she can feel every intake of breath as her own, and trapped as she is Marianne finds herself at the sudden mercy of his unflinching gaze.

And despite the hurt and anger in his eyes, the proximity nearly knocks her knees out from under her.

“And yeh took it,” he’s saying then, voice so close she can feel the drum of his vocal chords. “Yeh knew he’d be likely to seek you out, like you’d hoped he would at the ball–”

 _That_  snaps her out of it.

“I was sitting on that rooftop to get away from him!” And she’s practically shrieking now, but she doesn’t care if anyone else hears – doesn’t care if the entire guard shows up to haul her out by her wings, because she needs him to hear this,  _she needs him to know_. “I was happy to see you! Or did you think that was just pretend, too–”

“ _Look at me_!” he roars then, the sheer force of his voice enough to make her stagger back in surprise, but the staff holds her in place, and he’s pressed so close now she can feel every ridge of his lean frame, and every heaving breath against her own. And she thinks of the balcony, and that spot in the festival shadows, the wall at her back and his grin against her jaw.

She feels light-headed, suddenly, and warm from the flush that’s crept along her exposed arms, to pool molten sunlight in her stomach.

But oblivious to her current state, it’s with equal parts derision and resentment that Bog gestures to himself. “You –” he begins, disbelief turning the pitch of his voice high with misery. “Yeh let me  _touch_  you. Yeh wouldnae have done that if yeh–” he shakes his head. “To think tha’ I was foolish enough ta – think that you’d  _ever_  want ta–” he doesn’t finish, but she hears the words as if he’d shouted them at her.  

She wants to say something – her own words are pushing up her throat, too many for her mind to sort through, to find the ones that will make him see – but she’s not given the chance as his expression changes; shifts from that incredulous hurt to something darker, something wild and unpredictable.

Whatever he says next is lost in the snarl that rips from his mouth, and then the press of the staff vanishes from her back, before he angles it in a sweeping thrust towards her, followed by a swinging arc that forces Marianne to throw herself out of the way to avoid being hit. And he’s serious now – she feels it in the force put behind every blow, pushing her back with every advance, down the sloping steps from the throne, and it’s all she can do to parry the attacks, still reeling from her earlier distraction and finding it increasingly more difficult to keep up with the thrusts and blows levelled towards her.  

But if Bog notices her faltering or her lack of focus, he’s too wrapped up in his anger to process their meaning. And he’s driving her back across the throne room now, a mindless growl at the back of his throat and his advantage in weight and stature aiding him in his advance. And the thought strikes her then, a hard, cold fear that she has no way of knowing how far he’ll go to make her leave – if what it finally takes to drive the futility of her mission through her head is an actual, physical blow that may well do more damage than he’d intended, used to sparring with his own kind, not hers, smaller and softer creatures that they are.  

In the end it’s a misstep on her part that tips the scale.  

Her arm pulls back, fingers wrapped around the handle of her sword, but the pain that clamps like a vice over the muscle, previously forgotten in the rush of anger and adrenaline, is suddenly too much to ignore. Momentarily distracted, a small rock has her foot slipping out from beneath her, and between the staff aimed for her head and the sudden loss of foothold Marianne doesn’t have the mind to catch herself when she falls.

It all takes less than a second.

She lands on her back, the impact with the stone floor driving the breath clean from her lungs, but Bog had not counted on her not being ready to meet him, the staff slipping through the air where her sword should have been to stop it, and it’s with a sudden, staggering certainty that Marianne knows there’s no avoiding what comes next.

Clenching her eyes shut, she steels herself for the weapon to strike, but there’s no impact – no stroke of wrought iron to rend her asunder. Instead air rushes by her cheeks, and when she opens her eyes it’s to find the metal of the staff less than an inch from her face.

And Bog, kneeling above her, one hand curled around the weapon and the other pressed against the floor next to her ear – a split-second decision that had no doubt saved her life.

Chest heaving with the force of her breaths, Marianne can feel the press of the weapon against her sternum, the weight of it a promise of the damage it would have caused, if he hadn’t stopped himself in time.

The hand still gripping the handle of her sword uncurls, before the  _clang_  of the metal connecting with the floor cuts through the quiet and their heaving breaths. And she sees his eyes widen as he recognizes the gesture for what it is – leaving herself completely open and unarmed.

A show of trust, whatever that is worth to him now.

The clatter of the staff registers before the realization of its absence, and then he’s leaning down, his own breath a hoarse rasp against her ear. He’s not resting his whole weight on her, but enough that she feels the warmth of him, a faint but dearly welcome thing with the cool stone against her back.

And she doesn’t know what drives her now – her courage seems a petty thing, small and fickle and fraying at the edges, but her heart clenches within her chest, and it’s with the most care she can manage that Marianne reaches to touch his face.

“ _Don’t_ ,” comes the rumble next to her ear, but it’s not like on the balcony, where he’d asked her not to go. Now it’s warning, but a half-hearted thing, like he’s too tired to manage a convincing threat.

But she doesn’t draw back, and the dip of her palm comes to rest against his jaw with surety. And she doesn’t linger now – doesn’t waste single second more with waiting as she pushes upwards with the little strength she has left, hands cradling his face and mouth pressed to his in a kiss that is neither tender or slow but insistent, remnants of anger curling like warmth in her belly, and she’s spurred by the conviction that if she can’t convince him with her words or her sword there is only one thing left that she has to offer.

His surprise is a muffled noise against her mouth, but her fingers are trembling against his jaw, and with her next breath he yields beneath her hands, and she could laugh, she could weep for the simple fact that  _he isn’t pushing her away._

The ground is hard against her back and her folded wings pressed beneath her weight and his, and it’s a push-and-pull that is not so different from their physical blows, the catch of his teeth in her lower lip prompting a small blossoming of pain, and her hands tugging,  _clawing_  at his neck, pulling him down until there’s no space, and until she can feel the shudder of his breath though it’s still not close enough – it’s not nearly close enough.

Shifting her legs has him sinking further against her, and the groan that falls against her mouth resounds through her, a deep drumming sound that claims her heart and her breath and steals all coherent thought from her mind, leaving her gasping against him. A hand comes to grip her hip, the other still by her head, keeping his weight from crushing her. And when his mouth brushes, a shiver of sharp teeth against the leap of her pulse, it’s almost more than she can handle.

There is no interference now – nothing to draw them away, and the lingering disappointment from their prior interruptions spurs her on, along with the memory of anticipation cut short and then prolonged until she hadn’t been able to think about anything but his touch, unbearably gentle against her neck.

But there is nothing gentle about this – no testing of the waters or kindling of a spark but wildfire, hot and fierce where it envelops her whole. It’s his hand on her hip, his weight pressing her into the floor and his mouth greedy and demanding where it claims hers. And her hands aren’t trembling from any nervous feeling now, but something else, some daring she’s never known that makes her touch skim, feather-light and searching along the jutting ridges of his chest. A need to draw him even closer still grips her, spilling from bruised lips in a whimper that would have mortified her, if not for the way it makes him  _lurch_  against her, followed by an oath, dark and condemning against her mouth.

Bog draws away to look at her then, and the expression in his eyes quiets the furious leap of her heart against her breastbone. Not anger now, or hurt or even betrayal, but a reverent disbelief that leaves her boneless.

The hand beside her head is in her hair then, his fingers shaking with an effort that makes heat creep across her face, but he doesn’t pull her back for another kiss. Instead he only watches her, as though seeing her for the first time, and if she hadn’t been quite so captured by the awe in his eyes Marianne would have felt exposed, flat on her back as she is with her legs spread and still heaving to catch her breath.

His mouth is working, and he looks like he wants to say something, but no words fall between them, and from some long untouched corner of her heart she finds a silly smile that bubbles forth with a soft, breathless laugh. And for a moment they just look at each other, making no effort to move, or to untangle from their borderline indecent embrace.

A soft, almost strangled “Need any help, Sire?” rises from the dark then, and Marianne starts, the gesture knocking her hand against his chest, but Bog only groans, ducking his head to rest against her sternum.

A shuffle in the shadows, followed by a cough and the sound of running feet disappearing into the castle interior, and heat erupts across her entire body with the realization that they had not been quite as alone as she’d thought.

He’s rising to his feet then, his hands wrapping gently around her elbows to pull her with him until they’re both standing, and Marianne startles when his touch lands, a tentative brush against the base of her wings.

"Are yeh – uh,” he clears his throat. “You’re not hurt?”  

His show of concern has a ripple of warmth rising within her, and despite the twinge of pain in her arm, Marianne shakes her head. “No. I’m – good.” It’s not even close to an adequate word for what she’s feeling at present, but when she grapples for eloquence all she comes away with is that foolish smile.

Bog nods. “Ah, good – that’s, um, good. Right, we ought to–” He makes to take a step away from her then, when her fingers curl around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks.  

“Bog,” she says, and – stops. She doesn’t know how to proceed after this; doesn’t know how to tell him, now that she has to use her voice to do so. She can’t well burst into song, and she’s already tried with her sword. But – "Do you believe me now?” she chances, and her voice is almost too soft for the urgency behind her words. “I told you that I…that I felt something, but I need you to believe me when I say that what I’m feeling is  _real_ , it’s not – it’s not a charade.”

He doesn’t respond at once, but Marianne refuses to bow to the despair springing forth from his silence, unwilling now more than ever to let him walk away.

But he’s listening now, as he wasn’t before, and that gives her the courage she needs to lay herself bare.

“I didn’t plan it,” she says then. “I didn’t know what would happen when you found me at the ball – how could I have known? But I’m glad you did, you have to know that I am because it means…it means I got  _you_.”

He snorts that that, the sound a softly derisive thing. “I’m afraid ah’m nae much of a prize.”

She has to laugh at that – has to, because her knees still feel too weak to properly carry her weight, and when she smiles it’s a clever, wicked curl of her mouth. “I’ve got a split lip that begs to differ, you know.”

Bog only shakes his head at that, fingers twitching at his sides, and she can tell he wants to reach out and touch her, and the fact that he still holds himself back breaks her heart.

And so Marianne moves instead, releasing her grip on his hand before letting her arms slide under his to draw him close, brow pressed to his chest as she sinks against him. At first he seems too startled to respond, but then there are arms around her shoulders, tentatively returning the embrace. And something shakes loose within her at his quiet acceptance – something tightly wound unfurling at last, and when she sighs he bears her added weight with more confidence, the arms around her tightening to hold her in place.

Her racing heart has settled into a semblance of calm, and in the press of his nose against her hair she finds the answer she’d been looking for, and if she grips him a little too tight he doesn’t speak of it, and he doesn’t make to move away.

“Marianne–” he begins, but whatever he’d been about to say is cut off by the tell-tale  _sheeek_  of a sword being drawn.

"It would seem my daring rescue comes a little too late,” comes the drawl from the throne room’s entrance, and cold terror shoots down Marianne’s spine.  

They pull apart, not violently this time, but with enough surprise to leave her feeling bereft, memories of the last two times still vivid in her mind. But Bog doesn’t step away from her as they turn towards the new arrival – the very last person she’d hoped to see.

“Thang!” Bog snaps then, looking towards the two goblins standing a careful distance away from Roland.

“He said he was with the Princess, Sire!” the shorter of the goblins pipes up. “And we uh – we didn’t want to interrupt again.”

“Buttercup,” Roland calls towards her, the nickname a sickly sweet thing where it curls around her ear. Then, with far less sweetness – “King Bog.”

“What are  _you_  doing here?” It’s Bog who asks, not even bothering to correct him on the title as he steps forward, the movement discretely putting her behind him.

Unperturbed by the threat underlying those words, Roland meets his step with one of his own, followed by a theatrical sweep of his arm that has Marianne rolling her eyes.

“I am here to rectify a grave injustice to the crown,” he says, hand on the pommel of his sword to punctuate his announcement. “And to our most beloved Princess. It pains me that you can’t see it, Marianne, it really does. But you’ll thank me later, I have no doubt.”

"On what grounds?” she snaps, but fear makes the words tremble on her tongue. She wonders where Dawn is, but doesn’t want to ask – Roland would do a lot of things to get his way, but he would never hurt her sister. But if Dawn had been unable to stop him from coming, Marianne wouldn’t put it past Roland to have convinced their father of some blatant lie to further his own gain.

He squares his shoulders at that, and the smile that crosses his face confirms her fears, but it does nothing to prepare her for the words that follow–  

“On the grounds of the King of the Dark Forest using a  _forbidden_  love potion to trick you, Princess Marianne, into the unholiest of unions.”

“ _What_?”

Her disbelief is echoed by Bog going very still, but hers is the fury that explodes within her, sending her lurching forward, but a hand clamping around her wrist holds her back.

“That’s a lie!” she snaps. “You were the one with the potion! I saw you –  _Dawn_  saw you!”

A blond brow quirking is all her outburst earns her, however. “If I’m not mistaken,  _I_  am not the one currently in possession of said potion. As I told His Majesty, when he asked.”

Something goes very, very quiet within Marianne. “You did  _what_.”

Roland only shrugs. “He’s expecting me to bring you back, safe and sound. I’m afraid this does put some stress on our foreign relations, but it’s nothing a little show of force can’t remedy. We are in possession of a rather impressive army, if I do say so myself.”

“You  _scheming_ –”

“Whoa now!” He holds his hands up. “I’m not here to argue with you, Marianne – I’m just here for him,” he says, waving his sword at Bog.

It’s not a threat. It’s not even a warning, only a simple declaration, but it shoots straight to a place in her heart that hasn’t been touched since she’d been very young, sitting at her mother’s sickbed and accompanied by the fear that if she nodded off her mama might no longer be there when she woke. It’s a fear of loss, born and nursed at the heels of the one that had hit her the hardest, and it pushes like bile up her throat now.

Because this is a loss she can’t live with, she knows with a certainty that runs like a shock through her system.

And so it’s fear that makes her move, and anger, burning hot and furious in her veins, and it’s Bog’s call of her name when she dives for her sword, agony shooting up her arm as she lifts it, the tip aimed for Roland’s throat with more conviction than she’s ever felt. And when her voice pushes past the vice around her windpipe, it’s to fall into the quiet of the throne room with a calm that shakes her to her very roots.

“Then you’re going to have to go through me first.”


	4. Thistle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness but the response to this has been so wonderful! I'm itching to write new chapters, and you are all so sweet and supportive with your comments. Thank you so much! 
> 
> Oh, and if you haven't yet had a chance to see the stunning art Krocatoo on tumblr has drawn for this fic, I don't even know what to tell you other than that you've got such a treat in store!

Her arm aches from the weight of her sword, fingers shaking where they’re curled around the hilt, and the silence that’s washed across the room at the heels of her declaration is broken only by the thundering of her blood in her ears.

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder then, large palm spanning the entire curve of it, and the rigidly wound muscle in her arm relaxes a fraction. Bog doesn’t say anything, but his presence at her back is an oddly welcome thing, for one grown so used to standing alone.

Roland doesn’t move from under her scrutiny, but she catches the flicker of his eyes, following the brief movement – the touch that falls so easily, and the closeness that doesn’t so much as make her twitch. His hand tightens around his blade, but Marianne is quick, tilting the tip of her own, just enough to angle it towards the slip in his armour, between his breastplate. A clear warning, and one she can tell takes him by surprise.

“Now, Buttercup…”

Oh, but that nickname rankles – curls like a foul taste on her tongue, and part of her wants to leap forward and physically shove the name back down his throat and forget he’d ever spoken it in her presence. She’d used to love being his buttercup – his pretty, cheerful flower with its gentle edges, glowing soft and golden like the sun under his praise.

Golden, like her father’s crown and the wealth of her kingdom.

Sensing her tension, Bog’s hand on her shoulder tightens its grip, and Marianne breathes through her nose. In the shadows of the throne room, illuminated by little else but the softly glowing lamps hanging overhead, she doesn’t feel like a pretty flower – a buttercup bent at the stem in the gentlest breeze. No, in the dark she feels like something else, something prickly and sharp and sturdy, and her anger a belladonna’s poison, potent and wild and not to be underestimated.  

“Tell me something,” she says then, and her voice is calm despite her racing heart. “How did you even get your hands on a love potion in the first place?”

She feels Bog stiffen at the question, but doesn’t dare take her eyes off Roland long enough to look at him. It’s been on her mind since the festival. Only one person in the realm is said to possess the knowledge of how to make love potions out of primrose petals and that’s–

“The Sugar Plum fairy,” Bog says then, voice a deep rumble at her back. Through her confusion, Marianne makes note of the smile that suddenly curves along Roland’s face.

“But why would she agree to make it?” For obvious reasons, it’s a forbidden practice, and yet somehow Roland had gotten his hands on one.  

Bog snorts at that. “That… _creature_  is not wont to follow rules,” he drawls. “Her nature is to be wilful and unpredictable.”

Something about his words makes her pause. Everyone in the realm knows of the Sugar Plum fairy, but Bog speaks with a knowledge that runs deeper than simple hearsay, and she’s suddenly tempted to ask what possible reason he could have had to have been involved with such a notoriously cunning fairy.  

Then realization settles, and she remembers his reaction at the festival, stepping in front of her when Roland had prepared to dust her. And with her blade still levelled at her ex-fiancé, smiling like he’s in on some private joke, Marianne turns her head to look at Bog.

“You used a love potion on someone?”

The words are softly spoken, and he’s not looking at her – like he can’t bear to. And when he speaks next, his voice is thick with regret. “Aye.”

She’s too stunned to respond, mind struggling to wrap itself around the sudden onslaught of information – not just that the great Bog King had loved someone once, but fiercely enough to commission a forbidden potion to have his affections returned.  

“And that’s not all,” Roland speaks up then, the gleefulness in his voice pulling her attention back like the tug of a string. “At least not from what I heard – and my sources are nothing if not reliable,” he chuckles.

Marianne chances another glance at Bog. “What is he talking about?”

He still isn’t looking at her, but she recognizes the look in his eyes – the same grief she’d seen at the festival, watching him turn towards her in the shadows.

_You played me._

“It didnae work,” he says simply.

His words are thick with a self-deprecating remorse that she feels in her gut, but Marianne can’t help the question that springs forth. “Wait – what? I thought that thing was supposed to be fool proof.” It was one of the reasons the practice had been outlawed in the first place.

Roland twirls his sword, the gesture gently mocking. “I guess even with a love potion, some things are just  _too_  hideous to love,” he declares, and she doesn’t miss the way Bog tenses up at the words.  

Something tries to force itself up her throat – she doesn’t know if it’s a spitting oath or a mindless, furious scream, but she’s ready to launch herself forward when the hand on her shoulder clamps down.

“Marianne.” He’s looking at her now, and despite the lingering grief in his eyes there’s something else there, too – a gentle disbelief, as though he couldn’t possibly imagine why she’d react so strongly on his behalf.

And underlying both of those things is something that drives the breath from her lungs with all the force of a physical blow. “He’s nae worth it.”

She wonders idly if he realizes how he’s looking at her – if he knows just how expressive his eyes are, and how much they reveal of what he’s thinking. It’s not like he’d looked at her on the balcony or in the shadows of the festival, or even on the floor of the throne room, breathless and boneless beneath him. Because he’s not looking at her like he’s seeing her for the first time now; he’s not looking at her like she’s some mystery to figure out, but rather like he has, and couldn’t be more happy with what he’s discovered.

And no one’s ever looked at her like that before.

Some of her thoughts must show on her face, because his own expression changes then, and he clears his throat, averting his eyes to a spot on the floor. And it takes genuine willpower for Marianne to turn her attention back to Roland.

“That still doesn’t explain why she’d make one for  _you_ ,” she says, hoping her voice doesn’t betray the wild stuttering of her heart in her chest. “Not if she knew what you wanted it for.”

To her surprise, Roland only shrugs. “I was not the one who asked her to make it.” He waves a hand. “It was the little elf – Sandy.”

Her heart goes very quiet, and when she speaks her voice betrays everything she’s feeling. “Sunny?”

“Sunny, Sandy. If you ask me, he’s the real culprit here.”

She realizes she’s shaking her head, but she doesn’t quite know why. “But – why would Sunny need a–”

The words aren’t even off her tongue before realization hits her, a flurry of memories of laughter and song in the castle corridors, and her father’s fond exasperation and ‘at least she’s not chasing after the guards’.

“Dawn,” she says then, very softly.

“Your sister?” Bog asks, but she can’t quite find the words to answer, unable to come to terms with why Sunny – good-natured Sunny who’d give the moon and the sun and the whole world to her sister if she asked – would resort to a magic potion to gain her affections.

But her answer finds her within her next breath, and her heart constricts behind her ribs. Sunny, who’d give the world for her sister, who had eyes for practically every guy in the fields but the one right under her nose.

 _Damn it, Sunny._ But the elf isn’t present, and so she turns her anger on Roland instead. “And I’m supposed to believe you had nothing to do with it? That, what, he just conveniently offered you half of the potion because you’re such good pals? You, the guy who calls him  _Sandy_?”

Roland clears his throat at that. “I – may have given him a little push.”

“A shove is more like,” Bog mutters, and if the circumstances were different Marianne might have snorted. But she’s too angry now – angry with Sunny and angry with Roland, though the former brings with it more disappointment than fury.  

“And he was fine with what you were going to use for?” It’s a hard truth to swallow, but if he’s so desperately in love with her sister he’s willing to resort to a love potion, odds are Sunny isn’t thinking clearly.

Roland only shrugs. “That was my business,” he tells her then. “And it would have worked. You would have been my Queen, and not wasting your beauty on this…” Waving his sword at the two of them, a grimace pulls at his face, warping his handsome features into something ugly and dark for the span of a single breath. “ _Beast_. What will your father say?”  

“I’ll talk to Dad,” Marianne says, and doesn’t know if she’s speaking to Roland or to Bog. “I’ll explain the situation.”

That infuriating blond brow  _quirks_. “And do you really think that will go over well? What will he say when he discovers that someone made advances on his eldest daughter without his explicit permission? And a fellow King at that.” There’s a reverence in the way he says the title that has a shiver running down her spine.

Bog growls, and the hand on her shoulder twitches. Marianne suppresses the sudden urge to grab it.  

When they’ve made no indication that they’re about to respond, Roland sighs – a dramatic exhale that has familiar irritation roiling within her.

“Well, I guess there’s nothing to it. If I can’t make you come back of your own free will, Marianne, I suppose I’ll have give you a little…incentive.”

Quick fingers reach behind him then, and before Marianne has had the chance to ask him to elaborate, the gleam of pink steals her gaze. Her heart drops like a stone, but it’s Bog who speaks, voice a tremulous rasp, hiding an anger that she feels in the tense press of him against her.

“Where did yeh get that?” Then – “Stuff!” he snaps, towards the two goblins who’ve been watching their exchange in rapt silence. It’s the larger one who jumps at the address, but the smaller one who squeaks,

“We’re sorry, Sire! He must have–”

Bog turns back to Roland, a dismissal clear in the gesture, and the hand drops from her shoulder. “No matter. I’ll juist take it back.” He’s looking towards his fallen staff, his indecision clear on his face – the question of whether to turn his back on the fairy armed with the love potion, if only for a second.  

“Bog,” Marianne says.  _I can take care of myself_ is what she doesn’t say – what she doesn’t need to say, because he already knows it – but the wary press of his brow tells her it matters little that she can. After all, physical strength can only do so much against a magic potion.

As it stands, he’s not given the chance to decide, interrupted by voices from further within the castle – one voice in particular bouncing off the walls in a shrill but trilling laugh – before the arrival of three more people draw their eyes to the entrance of the throne room. A small goblin walks in the front of the procession, sporting a scraggly head of hair and something that could potentially pass for a dress, and at her back–

Marianne’s breath tears from her throat, along with her surprise. “Dawn!”

“Look what I found at the door,” the goblin croons, nudging Dawn forward with a grin that almost makes Marianne take a step back. Behind them, Sunny lifts his hands in a helpless gesture. “Ain’t she a sight?” Then she proceeds to give Bog a look that can only be described as gleeful. “Though from what I hear you’ve already got your hands full with one fairy.” She –  _cackles_  is the word, and though it’s not unkind, mortification washes down Marianne’s back with the implications behind her words.

Bog only groans, a long-suffering sound, and she spares him a panicked look. “Who–?”

“Mother,” he says simply.  

“Oh.”

He levels a glare at the two smaller goblins then. “And which one of yeh’ve been spreading rumours?”

They share a look, but any excuse they may have come up with is lost when Bog’s mother pushes past them, hands on her hips. “And what an injustice that is! I can’t believe this is the first I’m hearing of this, after all the time I’ve spent trying to find you someone–”

“Ma–”

“–only to have to hear from  _Stuff_  of all people that not only did you find someone yerself, but you brought her home without telling  _me_ –”

“Ma.”

“–and all the while I’ve been sitting here, worrying my poor heart that you’ll end up sad and alone, while you’ve been off necking like a teenager! Poor fern’s got a split lip–”

Dawn’s brows shoot into her hairline at that, and Sunny’s mouth drops open, and Marianne briefly considers falling on her own sword.

“–that’s your father’s spirit that is, like I always tell you, but you’ve gotta be careful. Fairies are soft and you can’t treat her like just another romp–”

“ _Ma_!”

Her mouth clamps shut at that, but she doesn’t remove her hands from her hips, and Marianne is surprised to find that for all her deceptively small stature, Bog’s mother –  _towers_.

She doesn’t know which of them is the most horrified at this point – going by their faces, only Dawn seems to find the situation at all amusing, by the small smile lurking at the corner of her mouth.

The goblin makes her way over towards them then, peering up at Marianne with a wide, toothy smile.

“Griselda,” she greets. “And you must be the feisty princess who’s stolen my boy’s heart.” She gives her a quick once-over. “Hm. I thought you’d be fiercer looking. Word around the castle is you scream like a barn owl.”

She prays then, oh so very much, for the ground to swallow her up. But the goblin is looking at her with such an earnest expression, Marianne can only manage an entirely inelegant “Uh.”

She doesn’t dare so much as glance in Bog’s direction.

Griselda seems entirely unperturbed by their discomfort, but whatever else she’d been about to say is interrupted by a voice that has been suspiciously quiet.

“As…charming as this little introduction has been,” Roland says, with an expression that borders between horror and intrigue. “I feel it’s time to cut things short, before I lose my dinner.”

Regaining her momentum, Marianne tightens her grip on her sword. “Don’t even think about throwing that potion.”

At the mention of the thing, Dawn gasps, and Marianne catches eyes then – and the regret in them. “Marianne, I’m so sorry, I didn’t–”

“Don’t be sorry, Dawn. I should have known he wouldn’t back off.” Looking at Roland, she tilts her blade. “What’s it going to take for you to get through your head that I’m never going to marry you?”

“ _Marry_?” Griselda asks then. “This blond piece?”

Someone snorts, and the little goblin – Thang – claps his hands over his mouth.

Griselda looks up at Dawn. “No offence to you, honey. You’re pretty as a sundrop, you are.”

“Um. Thanks?”

“Don’t let yourself be fooled by this creature’s idea of a compliment, Dawn,” Roland says then. “They’ve already taken your sister. I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to your father with the news that it was too late to save you both.” He looks at Sunny then. “Not to mention, the truth of the conspiracy between the Bog King and one of his own subjects!”  

“Hey!” Sunny steps forward, finger pointed with accusation. “ _You_  asked me to get the potion, remember?”

“I remember no such thing, Sandy–”

“It’s  _Sunny_.”

“Suntop, Sandbox.” He waves a hand. “Now who do you think he’s going to believe? The one who rescued his daughters?” He flashes a grin, before his expression turns abruptly serious. “Or the one who had a forbidden love potion made for Princess Dawn?”

Sunny’s mouth snaps shut at that, panic making his eyes go wide, and Marianne is about to open her mouth when Dawn beats her to it. “I know.”

They eyes of the room come to land on her, to which she only shrugs, pointedly avoiding Sunny’s disbelieving look. “I know why you got the potion,” she says, hands fiddling with the front of her dress.

Sunny’s expression changes – turns wary. “And you’re not…mad?”

Her sister smiles, that sunburst smile that belongs under the open sky. “Silly,” she says. “You should have just told me.”

The elf only shakes his head. “You say that like it’s  _easy_.”

“It’s not easy,” Dawn says. “It’s the hardest thing ever. That’s how you know it’s real.”

“She’s your  _younger_  sister?” Bog asks Marianne quietly, incredulity making is voice strangely high.

Marianne can only shake her head. “I don’t know who that is.”

Dawn looks at her then, and Marianne starts. “Did you tell him?” she asks pointedly, shifting her blue eyes to Bog, who tenses up like a fly trap.

“I, uh, there hasn’t really been a lot of time for talking–”

“You could say that again,” Griselda mutters under her breath, and Marianne promptly forgets the rest of her words.

“Alright! This circus has gone on long enough.” Hoisting his sword, Marianne isn’t quick enough to stop him as Roland springs forward to grab her sister, pressing the smooth edge of the polished blade against Dawn’s neck.

A fury like she’s never known explodes within her, and she thinks she may have stopped breathing.

“Roland,” she says, with a calm that holds a storm at its heart. “You better hope you wings can carry you, because when I get my hands on–”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Buttercup. I wasn’t planning on staying long. In fact I was just about to… _gooooooooo!_ ”  

A second of utter silence follows the outburst, before a rumble tears through the floor underfoot, making her stagger forward, but Bog’s hands are on her elbows, keeping her from falling. Then the floor heaves as another crash sounds from somewhere below their feet, and a crack shoots through the stone – a jagged, yawning thing wide enough to fall through.

Confusion makes her voice breathless. “What–”

Roland shoves Dawn forward then, and Marianne drops her sword, throwing herself out of Bog’s grip to catch her sister as part of the floor gives way from beneath them. Scrabbling to keep from falling, Marianne pushes off the floor, hauling her sister with her as she takes to the air.

Chaos explodes around them.

Turning back towards Bog, Marianne finds her confusion echoed in his eyes, wide with disbelief as more cracks climb up the walls around them. But there’s more than just questions on his face, and her heart constricts when she finds it’s not anger but anguish.

She wants to call out when a piece of the roof lands between them, sending her careening backwards through the air, Dawn’s yelp lost in the noise as her hand slips from Marianne’s grip. There’s dust and falling debris everywhere, and she’s coughing, her vision obscured and her ears full of voices shouting.  

Arms clamp around hers then, hauling her backwards, and she’s kicking her legs, a furious scream lodged at the base of her throat as Roland pulls her with him. She thinks she hears someone calling her name – thinks it might be Bog, but she doesn’t have the voice to call back; can only strain her eyes to peer through the clouds of dust, but it’s impossible to spot him anywhere.  

Then they’re taking off towards the hole in the roof, and she’s trashing, wiggling in his grip, but he’s got her arms and her wings pinned and her lungs are burning from the dust, making it hard to focus.

She can’t make out where they are, but taking a chance, Marianne puts her whole weight into tipping him off balance, and satisfaction blossoms in her chest at his pained grunt when the movement has them both knocking against the wall. His grip loosens a fraction at the impact, and she grabs the opportunity with both hands.

“Get –  _off_!”

Then she’s free, and she doesn’t so much as spare a glance over her shoulder as she dives back into the castle, dust and panic making her voice hoarse.

“Dawn!  _Bog_!”

But there’s no answer to her calls, and the debris keeps falling – the walls crumbling around her, and panic gives way to genuine fear, pushing her forward with a desperate need to get out, _get out before it falls and takes you with it, you’ve got to get out._

Her relief is a living thing in her breast when she catches a glimpse of the forest through the falling chunks of rotten wood, and  _Bog_ , at the entrance to the castle, his back turned as he physically restrains her sister.

And Marianne spots the relief that erupts across Dawn’s face before the shriek of her name that follows – the one that makes him turn towards her, and there’s relief in his own eyes when she claims them, wings straining to push her forward, towards him when he reaches for her.

A  _crack_  like bone snapping in half cleaves through the din.  

Her heart stops.

It takes her less than a second to make her decision.

His hand is reaching towards her, ready for her to grab, but her palms are flat where they come to land on his chest, and it’s with every ounce of strength that she possesses that Marianne  _shoves_.

And she doesn’t know if it’s the surprise or the impact itself that makes him stagger back, but he does, and her relief is a sob in the back of her throat when he clears the shadow of the castle’s entrance. And she can see his mouth working, and the terrible realization of what is about to happen as it alights in his eyes–

_I’m so sorry._

–before the great maw snaps shut, and darkness swallows her whole.


	5. No Soil Fit for Burrowing Roots

He knows what she’s about to do the moment she makes the decision – the hardening of her eyes is what gives her away, but he’s not quick enough to interject; to grab her and haul her out of the way. Instead the press of her palms against his chest is what he gets, before the push sends him staggering back, and the last glimpse of her he’s given before the great skeletal maw closes over her small form is that her eyes aren’t hard anymore but dark, grieving things.

 _You really should rethink your entrance_. But the words are mirthless now, and in the desperate panic that claims hold of his heart as his castle crumbles, Bog wonders if they will be what he remembers best.  

But he’s moving before the thought has had time to take root, diving after the falling debris of his home, and the one thing he’d never counted on would be a harder loss.

He hears her sister shout from above, but in the din it’s impossible to make out what she’s saying, and he’s too busy straining to catch up with the collapsing wreckage to stop and think – to consider the danger posed in the rotten wood and earth raining down around him, and that a stray piece could easily take him with it, to bury him at the bottom of the ravine with Marianne and the rest of his castle.

The last, keening note of the scream she’d let out when the skull had closed above her head drift towards him, and it’s a tether if he’s ever known one – a promise that she’s still alive, for however much longer.

He’d just found her. The thought smacks of an almost childish misery, but it’s all he can do to keep it from overwhelming him. He hadn’t counted on her – hadn’t counted on her presence in his life as anything but the occasional and obligatory exchange of niceties. He hadn’t counted on how her skin would feel under his touch, or how she’d mould against him, like she’d been made to fit. He hadn’t counted on her dry wit, or the sharp arc of her smile and her blade and her back beneath his fingers.

 _He’d just found her_ , and the thought of losing her is almost more than he can take.

He finds the skull, surprisingly whole but for the jagged crack running across its front, and caught in a bramble bush. And he wastes no time scrambling towards it, claws rending, pulling at shattered bone until it yields beneath a strength he doesn’t feel, limbs sluggish with a fear to which he’s never known an equal.

The bottom of the ravine is cloaked in shadow, but he’d know the colour of her wings anywhere, vivid and bright against his memory though they look like darker things now, wrapped around her as they are – a last-ditch attempt at protection, he realizes, and a poor one, for all that they were all she had.

Then he’s pulling her out, so wee and terrifyingly soft, and so still it stops his heart.  

“ _No_.” And he doesn’t know who he’s speaking to – if it’s denial or simply disbelief, but he’s grasping for a sign of life, his hand impossibly large against her slender neck, but her pulse isn’t leaping up to meet his touch this time, and terror grips him like a winter’s chill, unforgiving as it wraps around a heart beating hard enough to hurt.

She’s limp in his arms, such a stark difference from the tense clench of her shoulders he’d felt beneath his hand in the throne room, and her face is expressionless – there is no furrow to her brow, and no clever curl of her lip. Cuts and scrapes pepper the pale rise her cheeks, and the cut in her lip looks less appealing now, with her expressive mouth slack and unresponsive.

Then – a barest flutter tickles his palm.

It’s so weak and feeble at first he thinks he’s imagined it, but then he hears it, a muffled, raspy groan against his ear–

“ _Mmpf_.”

–and it’s the single greatest sound he’s ever heard, trumping her breathless laugh, and even the wanton whimper he’d drawn from her lips, a sound he’d thought would forever be without equal.

And then she’s coughing, the force of it shuddering through previously lax limbs with a vigour that is both staggering and dearly familiar in it stubborn persistence, and Bog thinks that he could never be happier for her obstinate soul than in this moment.

“Bog–” but the croak is barely past her lips before she’s coughing again, face drawing together in a grimace that’s so full of life it nearly does him in.

Her hair smells like the earth and the dust tickles his nose, but he finds his lost breath and the ease of his heart in the feel of it, soft like the rest of her and tangling between his fingers now as he draws her close – as close as he can manage, and still not close enough.

“I thought ah’d lost you.”

The tension in her body brought on by the hacking coughs bleeds out as the words disappear into her hair, and she relaxes against him. But the trembling press of her hands against his back is a fierce thing, revealing more of her thoughts than the shivering sigh that curls around his ear.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, and he can tell she means it – hears in the relief coating her voice that she’d thought that she wouldn’t make it. And yet she’d done it anyway; had endangered herself with the sure knowledge that it would be the last thing she did, giving more than anyone should ever do – more than anyone has ever given  _him_  in his long life.  

And all at once, it becomes too much. With her alive and breathing in his arms, his grief is slowly thawing, giving way to an anger that is startling in its sincerity, but though he shoves the words rising from within him back down to their dark places, the involuntary tightening of his grip gives away more than he could ever actually convey with words.

“You’re angry,” she’s saying then, voice hoarse where it slips past her lips. There’s a hand on his chest, pushing gently, to make him look at her. “And I get that you are, but–”

She’s not given any indication that it’s okay for him to do it – no tentative tilt of her head, or deliberate lowering of her guard to grant him the liberty, but he kisses her now, her chin caught between fingers that don’t tremble as he pulls her as close as he physically can. And he forgets that she’s hurt when she pushes back to meet him, something like a sob muffled against his mouth, and he feels the strange warmth of her tears against the hand gripping her chin.  

Copper is sharp on his tongue, a reminder of her split lip, but if she feels the pain she doesn’t draw back. Instead she presses closer, fingers curling around his wrist, and her breath is a ragged, gasping sound, swallowed by his own. And it’s rough and inelegant, dust and grime and her kiss-bruised lips, and the hand not holding her chin comes to find her waist, the soft sloping curve of her ribcage yielding beneath his grip—

She  _hisses_  then, and Bog pulls away so fast he nearly drops her in surprise, but her hand is still on his wrist, holding him back.  

“I landed on my side,” she manages through gritted teeth, forcing her breath out through her nose. “It’s probably just a sprain.”

“It could ‘ave been worse.”

She looks up then, eyes finding his, honey and the dark earth to claim every bit of him. And he wonders, suddenly, what he would have done if she’d never opened them again. The thought almost doesn’t bear thinking about.  

“Why?” he asks her then, and there are too many questions in that single word than he can possibly wrap his tongue around, and more than he has the courage to ask her outright.  

Marianne is sitting now, unmindful of her knees in the dirt and with her hand still around his wrist, as though to keep him from pulling away completely. “Do you even have to ask?” she tries, and attempts a laugh, but it sounds entirely humourless. And he recognizes the tenseness in her shoulders for what it is now – fear, the kind that had almost made her pull away that night on the balcony. And it’s so hard for him to wrap his mind around the fact that someone like her could be concerned she should ever send  _him_  running by saying the wrong thing.

And he’s so ill-equipped for this – so overwhelmingly unprepared for the honesty of her many admissions, and so at a loss of what to do to make her understand the sheer magnitude of their meaning. Because now that he’s faced with it – the truth her affections – everything has changed. If she’d played him or if it had simply been a desperate need for closeness,  _any closeness_ , that would have been the end of it. There’d be no need to consider the path that lies ahead, and what it means for her to offer up her heart the way she is, cupped whole and hale in the dip of her palms, unmindful of his claws and the sharp edges of his being that are bound to leave marks.  

There are so many things he should say, but all Bog can think of now is the implications of her half-made confession, and the world that awaits them up above. Their kinds intermingling is not unheard of, but it’s a rare enough occurrence to prompt more than just a few raised brows, and with their respective positions…

The truth is difficult to swallow, but he doesn’t know why he’d ever thought things could be different – that he’d imaged even for a second, with her soft weight beneath him and her pliant mouth – that her people,  _her father_ , would ever agree to such a union.

A frown tugs on her features when he rises to his feet, letting her hand drop from his wrist, to fall into her lap. “Let’s get yeh home,” he tells her, and it’s a small miracle his voice does not reveal the turmoil within him. “Yer sister will be worried.”

Marianne doesn’t bother masking her confusion. “Wait, Bog–”

“I think,” he says then, before she can finish. “That it would be best if we didnae tell your father about this.”

She sucks in a breath, a quick and startled sound, and he can see in her eyes that it’s the last thing she’d expected him to say. “What? But–”

“It would nae go over well,” he says, pulling the words from an old and aching place, and averting his gaze from her grief-stricken expression, lest he lose his courage. “The consequences…”

“Screw the consequences!”

The outburst is a surprise, but he can tell by the furrow of her brows that he’s made her think, and that despite her vocal disagreement she’s not entirely blind to his reasoning.

“Yeh will be Queen,” he tells her – reminds her as well as himself, because he’s not the only one who’d forgone any and all sensible thought to their standings in this world. “King or no King.” He wants to reach for her face, to feel the press of it against his palm – to memorize it, if anything. “And if there is one, it cannae be me.”

She looks like she wants to scream, but he can see the passing of her thoughts behind the depth of her eyes. Things she hadn’t considered – the long run, and what it would mean for their respective kingdoms. There is more at stake than just the two of them, and their private feelings. There is no such thing as privacy, for a ruler.

“So…what?” she asks then, her voice bordering on shrill. “You’re just–” But whatever she’d had planned, she doesn’t finish the thought, and he doesn’t know whether it’s because she can’t speak the words, or because she doesn’t know what to say.

“ _We’re_ ,” he tells her, with a sigh that betrays his attempted calm. “Guin to do what is best for our kingdoms.”

“But–”

“It’s nae what I want,” he tells her, fiercely enough to steal her words from her mouth. And he needs her to know this – he needs her to know that if he’d have his way she’d never leave his side. But for a union like theirs there are things to consider, a future that is further ahead than they can see now, eyes clouded by the selfish whims of their hearts. There’s the question of children – an impossibility, surely, unless the fates have decided to be kind. And considering his own poor luck, Bog highly doubts it.

These are the things he doesn’t tell her, but they are things she hears, regardless – he can see it in the slight tightening of the skin at the corners of her eyes.

“I guess I should have known it couldn’t be this easy, huh?” she asks softly, voice as quiet as he’s ever heard it.

“It’s nae supposed to be easy,” he tells her – her sister’s words, but they don’t hold a promise when he speaks them, only regrets. “It’s supposed ta be hard. That’s how yeh know it’s–”

“Real,” she finishes, the lone word thick with the things she doesn’t say – things she’ll probably never tell him now, not after this. Her half-said confession still sits in the space between them, unspoken and unclaimed, and it’s with a heavy heart that Bog lets it lie.

“Come on,” he says then. He doesn’t say her name – the syllables sit on his tongue, sweet and fragile things, but he’s loath to let them go, in case this time will be the last.

He doesn’t ask when he reaches for her, though he pauses, gives her a chance to draw back with a protest, and when she doesn’t Bog moves to pick her up. There is nothing wrong with her wings, but neither of them mention the fact, and when she tucks her head into the hollow of his neck he pretends not to feel the wet warmth against his collar.

When they’d fought he’d been surprised at the weight behind her attacks, but she’s light as a feather now, a slender sapling in the curve of his arm, and when he takes to the air he tries not to jolt her bruised ribs. And it’s a bitter comfort, holding her like this, but with their decision made it’s the only thing he has any right to.

The sun is pushing through the trees as they rise from the ravine, and when they come to land on solid ground it’s to find not just her sister and the elf, but the Fairy King himself, and a sizeable delegation from the Fairy Kingdom, including, to Bog’s slowly dawning horror, several armed guards.

“Marianne!”

But if the King had planned an armed assault, it’s forgotten at the sight of his daughter, and it’s with a waddle in his step that would have looked humorous but for the stricken look on his face that he pushes through the small crowd to reach them. Some of his own kingdom’s denizens are present as well, Bog realizes. Those who must have escaped the castle, but he has no further thought to offer the strange congregation of goblins and fairies because the King is upon them now.

“Oh, my darling girl.” And Marianne’s feet have barely touched the ground before she’s pulled out of his arms and into her father’s. Her shoulders tense up, muscles rippling at the sudden and fierce embrace, but it’s with a sigh that she visibly relaxes. Bog spots her sister moving closer, but like the elf he keeps his distance, ever wary of the group of guards at the King’s back, but most of all, of the smug blond fairy standing at their front, posing a glorified figurehead despite his slightly rumpled appearance.

The Fairy King draws back then, brows creased with concern now, and, Bog notes, not a small amount of anger. “What’s this I’m hearing about a love potion?”

The blond twat looks ready to speak up, no doubt a pre-planned speech, but Marianne beats him to it. “Yeah, that was – an adventure.” She tries to laugh, but it’s a hollow sound, though made breathless with the lie she spins from a quick and clever mind.  

Her sister steps in then, confusion written all over her features. “Marianne–”

“I’m  _fine_  now, Dawn,” she says, voice firm with an underlying message Bog can’t hear, but that he can guess at, by the subtle shift of the smaller fairy’s expression. Understanding, and yet not, but acceptance of a silent order to not pursue the matter.  

The King looks at Bog then, and the concern is gone now, leaving a fury that looks oddly misplaced on a face Bog has come to associate with the fondly frustrated expression of a father single-handedly raising two very different daughters.

“ _You_ –” he begins, but doesn’t get any further, halted by the gentle hand on his shoulder.

“It wasn’t him,” Marianne is saying then, the words falling unhindered from her tongue, silver-tipped with a story that is only half true. “I – he was just dragged into this.” She turns to look at Bog then, her eyes finding his with an ease that he’s never known anyone to possess, and he wonders if he is the only one who can tell what is so clearly behind her words. “Like me,” she adds softly.

But then she’s looking away again, snapping the tether before he’s had a chance to so much as utter a response as she turns on her ex-fiancé. And her voice is hard with an anger he sees in the quiver of her wings, and the tense clench of her shoulders. “Roland was the one who had the potion made.” And she’s chosen her words well. However much it leaves out of the elf’s involvement, it’s not a lie, and so the truth falls with ruthless conviction.

Catching onto her plan, Roland holds up his hands. “Now wait just a minute–”

But the King is already turning, gaze levelled on the fairy in question. “ _Roland_?”

“Ah, Your Majesty, what is  _clearly_  going on here is–”

“Oh I can see what’s going on here,” the King cuts him off. “You used a love potion on my daughter, and you would have us all believe Bog to be at fault. Wars have been fought over less, boy, and you would bring that upon our kingdoms!” And then he’s advancing on him, moving with ease now despite his wide stomach, and the hard determination in his step reminds Bog that the King of the Fields is by no means a soft ruler.

“ _Dad_.”

And then she’s there, holding him back; that strange compassion he can’t ever hope to understand prompting her interference, for all that the one she is saving has done nothing to earn it. “It’s okay,” she says, though from the slight tremble in her voice it’s far from the truth. Bog catches her sister and the elf exchanging looks, but no words are spoken between them.

“See?” She pats herself down, though Bog notices how she avoids touching her left side. “No harm done.”

His anger forgotten, at least for the moment, the Fairy King turns to regard his eldest, eyes searching her expression with a scrutiny that Bog recognizes. He’s known it himself, trying to read beyond what her mouth is saying.  

A trembling hand reaches up to touch her face, lingering over the bruise blossoming against her cheekbone. “You’re sure you’re alright?” he asks, something that sounds like fear making his voice hoarse, and it’s not hard to tell the news of her sudden disappearance must have hit him hard. That, added with the lies he’s obviously been fed, Bog is surprised he’s as calm as he is. “You’re no longer under its influence?”

She pauses at that – is silent for such a long time Bog is certain someone is bound to realize that something is amiss. But no one says a word, and then she’s breathing, “No, I’m – I’m alright.”

The lie doesn’t fall easily this time, and if he’d been thinking clearly her father might have realized, but as things stand the Fairy King is too concerned with the injustice done to his daughter to read more than wary exhaustion in her expressive gaze.

With the raise of a hand, he motions to Roland. “Guards – restrain him.”

The order takes him by surprise, Bog can tell, and he’s not given much time to protest as they move to push him to his knees. “Hey – whoa, careful! You’ll – ow! That’s my arm, yup there it is, you’ve got it, ahah, now would you–he- _ey_  watch the hair–!”

Two guards are holding him down now, and Bog supposes the sight should have given him some pleasure to behold, but it’s an empty victory, left as he is with nothing else but her father’s favour and the fading memory of Marianne’s touch.  

The Fairy King looks tired then, shoulders slumping in an almost eerily familiar manner, before he turns back towards Bog. And there is nothing left of his previous accusation in his kind eyes now.

“Well, Bog. I can only offer my deepest apologies for the actions of one of my subjects. If I had known of his intentions…” He looks towards the ravine then, and Bog is surprised to find that it’s genuine sorrow that turns his grey whiskers downwards. “We will of course offer recompense and whatever assistance needed, for the rebuilding of your castle,” he continues, but Bog is hardly listening. He has no castle, no dwelling to provide shelter, but it’s the furthest thing from his mind now.

“And I do hope this…incident has not put a permanent strain on our kingdoms’ relations,” the King adds. “I know I would hate for that to happen. After all, I had something of an accord with your father. I should like us to have the same.”

It’s spoken with such earnestness, and Bog can’t help the thought – the brief but shattering knowledge that there would be no such accord if he knew the things he’d said – the things he’d  _done_  to his daughter. The memory of that bedamned  _whimper_  is a fleeting thing, but he can already feel it fraying at the edges, and his inability to conjure the exact sound makes something constrict within him.

“Aye,” he hears himself agreeing, voice hoarse enough to give away his thoughts, and so he’s quick to clear his throat. “That wuild indeed be a loss.” It’s an excuse and he hears it – feels it, deep in his bones – even as the words leave his mouth.  _Wars have been fought over less,_ the King had said, and the truth of that sits a heavy reminder in his heart. Bog doubts there’d be a war, but the knowledge of his affair with his daughter could well mean the end of their current unanimity.

Marianne is looking at him with such raw grief it takes all his strength not to let his own show, and he’s glad he’s not known for being very talkative when he only manages stiffly, “But there’s nae lasting harm done.”

The King smiles, and sensing nothing amiss with his response but the strain in his voice, easily overlooked as a lingering reaction to losing his home, he diverts his attention back to his daughters. “Come on, my dears. It’s time for us to go home.”

The younger princess looks incredulous, but at Marianne’s pointed look her lips only press to a thin line, and she says nothing. But when her father’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder, to gently lead her away, she spares Bog a last, lingering glance, cornflower eyes so different from her sister’s and filled with a thousand questions he prays she will never ask him.

But then she’s turning away as well, and he watches them leave, the guards all but dragging the blond, still protesting, as they make for the border. Marianne doesn’t look back once, but Bog keeps his gaze tethered until she disappears into the underbrush, lilac wings blossoming bruises against his memory that he prays will never heal.  

He senses his mother’s approach before she speaks, but there’s none of the shrill accusation he expects in her voice, only a deep, incredulous grief. “What have you done?”

Bog only sighs, and turns away from the last of the departing fairies to look upon the empty spot where his castle had been standing when the sun had risen that morning. The good relations between the kingdoms persist, but he feels no relief.  

“I duin know,” he says, and he feels – lost. Not unlike he’d felt once, hands sticky with fairy dust and his heart in tatters despite the promise the bottle had held. And he’d carried his regrets for years, nurtured them to the point where he’d driven all hope of love from his life, until he’d found her on that balcony. There’d been no promise this time, no magical guarantee that it would all work out, but he feels robbed, regardless.

And as he grasps for the memory of her smile and the sound of her voice, the way she’d looked at him and her  _do you even have to ask,_  Bog knows there is no cure for this regret.

Not even time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas you may hate me now, but I implore you to give it one more chapter.


	6. Queen of Wild and Thriving Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind the rating changing to 'M' with this chapter, folks. 'tis no drill.

She doesn’t have a mind for parties – not anymore, anyhow. She used to, once, when she was young and silly, weaving flowers in her hair with her poor skill, and had thoughts only for who would ask her to dance. But it’s been years since she’s felt that kind of thrill, sitting at her vanity and losing herself to the anticipation of the evening, joy in her heart and a hum in her soul.  

There is no hum this night, and the expression staring back at her from the mirror conveys only wariness at the thought of the Spring Ball. There’s a warm breeze touching against her bare arms, tickling her hair and snagging in the flower tucked behind her ear, a pretty, red dahlia picked out by her handmaidens, to go with the dress that lies in a pitiful heap on the floor.

A knock on her door tugs at her attention, followed by a bright “Marianne?”, and she looks up, only to find Dawn’s incredulous face in the mirror.

“You’re not ready yet? It’s about to start! And you’re –” she stops then, arms crossed over her chest and her incredulity replaced by an old exasperation within the span of a single breath. “You’re wearing  _that_  again?”  

Marianne’s groan is lost somewhere in the ceiling, before she turns to regard her sister in the doorway. “I am, because I’m not going.”

Dawn’s shoulders slump. “Is this what it’s going to be like every year? I mean at least you’re not publicly slamming anyone, but this isn’t any better. At this rate you’re going to make  _me_  start hovering.”

Marianne can’t quite stop the snort. “Like you have time to hover these days.” She makes a show of trying to look past her. “Where’s Sunny?”

“Ha,” her sister says. “You’re hilarious.” She moves into the room, closing the door behind her as she makes for the rumpled dress. “And for the record, he’s getting ready for the ball. Unlike  _someone_.”  

The roll of her eyes is ignored, but a surge of fondness accompanies the familiar back-and-forth, and with it her shoulders relax their tight clench, wings sinking into the floor as she allows her eyes to follow Dawn’s busy ministrations. The dress is in her hands now, and Marianne feels a pang of regret at having tossed it so carelessly.

"Have you told Dad about the two of you yet?" she asks then, pulling the question from a curious place that she doesn’t often visit these days.

Dawn’s hands still on the fabric, before smoothing it out with a restless twitch of her fingers. “I’m – working on it.”

“Hmm. Wasn’t that what you said before we left for the winter palace last year?”  

It’s the wrong thing to say, and she knows it right as the words leave her tongue, and she isn’t surprised when her sister’s reflexive response falls into the space between them–

“Oh and  _you’re_  one to talk?”

Marianne’s mouth snaps shut at that, and her good humour flees back to where she’d buried it sometime the spring before. And Dawn realizes her mistake just a moment too late, before her expression shifts to one of guilt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

“Don’t be,” she says, and attempts a smile. It feels forced. “It’s been months. You shouldn’t have to keep stepping on eggshells around me.”

Dawn doesn’t say anything to that – doesn’t mention that it hadn’t taken her half so long to get over Roland, and doesn’t contradict her.

 _A whole year_.It’s almost hard to wrap her head around the thought; the passing of the seasons has happened so fast, and yet – not. The months have been long, those spent away from the Fields even longer than the others, and now it’s spring once more, her kingdom in full bloom and the air ripe with song to lift her heart, though it feels too heavy a thing for the bright and carefree jubilation of the Fairy Court.

Hands are on her shoulders then, and she’s being tugged out of her chair, Dawn’s quick fingers reaching to pull off her shift. “Hey!” Slapping at her sister’s hands does little to deter her, however, and soon her skin is peppered with goosebumps and Dawn is advancing on her, dress gripped between slender fingers and a determined press to her mouth.

“Dawn, I’m not in the mood–”

But Dawn isn’t listening, and Marianne can only lift her arms with the barest amount of enthusiasm as the dress is all but tugged over her head, the only consolation being that the action completely ruins her hair.

Blowing a stray lock out of her face, she spares a glance at the dahlia now sitting by her toe. “Are you done?”

Holding her gaze, Dawn picks up the flower, and then it’s pinned back into place – a pretty rose amidst a nest of unruly briars. “You’re impossible,” her sister declares, admiring her handiwork with a nod. “But you look good.”

A sigh pulls from her lips. “I’d rather not look  _anything_. This isn’t for my benefit you know, and no one is going to miss me if I’m not there.”

Dawn only shakes her head. “And what, if I may ask, are you going to do when you’re Queen? Hide away in here whenever there’s a public event?”

The thought is a sorely tempting one, but she doesn’t tell her sister that, rendered speechless by the sudden memory invoked by the words.

 _Yeh will be Queen._ He’d told her that – one of the last things he’d said to her, after she’d bared her heart for the second time in her life, only to have it handed back in strips and tatters.

She’s tried to keep her mind off it, with the ball approaching on swift wings, but she can’t ignore it any longer. And she doesn’t want to tell her sister of her reason for not wanting to attend tonight, though she suspects Dawn is already well aware.  

Bog hasn't made a single public appearance in the Fields since the elves’ spring dance, but then that’s come as no surprise to anyone, although she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t felt disappointment at the feast of the autumn equinox when he’d been nowhere to be seen. It was their last celebration before their winter migration, and she’d felt the bitter realization, standing there on that empty balcony with only the cold for company, that his absence meant she wouldn’t see him until the following year, if he even deigned to show up at all.

But it’s the Spring Ball, and the Bog King always attends the Spring Ball, for all that the rumours peg him as having no patience for it, or any fairy celebration for that matter. But it’s a big enough event to grant him license to pass on most of their other celebrations, and he’s been attending for as long as Marianne can remember.

The knowledge sits heavy and hard in her chest, and she doesn’t know whether to feel excited or sick to her stomach.

She doesn’t know what she’d do, if she were to meet him now. She wonders if it would be awkward, or simply too much to bear, being near him after everything that had transpired between them last year. In the months that have passed she’s thought through their eventual meeting – has planned what she would say, and how she would act. With regal poise, despite the hurt in her heart when she remembers his parting words, and the look on his face when she’d turned to leave.

She’d heard through her father that he’d reluctantly accepted their assistance in rebuilding his castle, but she hasn’t set foot in his kingdom, nor he in hers. And if her father ever suspected anything amiss with her sudden reluctance, he hasn’t mentioned it, but there’s a tremor of uncertainty that accompanies the thought now. Perhaps Bog had been waiting for her to take the first tentative step, to bring them back to what they’d been before everything had changed – before he’d found her on that balcony and tipped the scales so violently she’s still struggling to regain her footing.

But even as she thinks this, Marianne fears that she couldn’t take it, if they met and that was all he thought of her now – if all he were to offer were platitudes and those brusque nods she remembers only vaguely, the memories pale things now that she knows the curve of his smile and that odd, rumbling laughter.  

Anxiety drums a restless tune against her heart, and her hands are shaking where they’re pressed against the front of her dress.  

“What if he doesn’t show up?”

The question falls into the quiet like a pin dropping, and Dawn looks up, blue eyes wide in her face at the unexpected question. They’ve exhausted the subject of her decision last spring, or to the extent Marianne was comfortable discussing it, anyway. And she’s refused to talk about it since.

Her sister’s look softens then. “Then he doesn’t,” she says simply, and there’s more there than what she says.  _Then you move on, however long it takes. You’ve done it before._

Except that she hasn’t. Not from something like this, anyway. She hasn’t seen him in a year, but the thought makes her want to wring her hands, nervous with something she can’t understand. Because for all her fear that he’ll never set foot in her kingdom again, another sits even deeper in her bones, making her breathless just considering the possibility.

“And what if he shows up?”

Dawn has turned towards her now, giving Marianne her full attention, the morning sun on a pale blue sky, and there’s that look that reminds her of their mother, sitting in the soft furrow of her brow.  

“Then you’ll figure it out,” she says, and it may be simple but it’s what she needs, because she’s never asked to be coddled, never asked for sympathy, only a nudge in the right direction when her eyes are too clouded to see the path for herself.

Then there are hands tugging at hers, and their mother’s look is gone, replaced with something that is purely Dawn. “Now come on, we’re already late!” And spurred by her cheer, Marianne allows herself to be half led, half dragged from the room and down the corridor, the hem of her dress a soft sigh against her legs and her own enthusiasm a long forgotten memory, tucked away behind her heart.

They hear the music long before they arrive, the sound bouncing against the walls and drifting with a muted melody through the closed doors of the ballroom. There’s a steady thrum through the floor underfoot and the thin soles of her shoes, and Dawn’s eager voice in her ears, but Marianne doesn’t know whether to feel anticipation or trepidation as they approach the doors.

The ball is already in full swing, and Dawn is whisked away before she’s taken so much as a step inside, leaving Marianne with a last squeeze of her hand, an attempted comfort that does little to calm her sudden onslaught of nerves. And if she’s ever felt the odd one out, it’s nothing compared to how she feels now. Her pretty dress notwithstanding, she doesn’t feel much like a Princess, and a future Queen even less so. Her sister doesn’t even know how close to the truth she’d come, when she’d suggested Marianne would spend her reign hiding away from the public eye. Perhaps her first act as Queen should be to do away with these kinds of celebrations.

She supposes the thought would have been funny once, but now it only resonates with an ugly ring of truth. Even if she has no patience for parties anymore, it’s not a sentiment shared by anyone else in the Fields.

And a Queen cannot put her own comfort before that of her subjects.  

She can’t spot her father anywhere, but the ballroom is teeming, the sea of colourful wings and dresses like a flower-field in its own right, but the thought of braving the currents keeps her rooted to the spot, hands fisting in the fabric of her own dress as she contemplates whether or not anyone would miss her if she discretely slipped back out.

A shiver against her arm then, and Dawn is back, leaning in as she passes her by and voice raised with a sing-song lilt that bodes nothing but trouble. “Look at that,” she says with a flick of her eyes, before she’s gone again in a flurry of pink and gold, and following the line of her gaze, Marianne’s heart promptly stops in her chest.

At the other end of the room, Bog cuts a solemn figure of brown-grey against the multicolour swarm. And she doesn’t know how she’d missed him, as he sticks out even more than she does without even trying.

By the look on his face he’s been watching her since she’d come in, and her heart leaps a furious dance against her breastbone as she catches his gaze. And Marianne surprises herself by not dropping her own, a spark of an unexpected courage flaring to life within her, to drive the nervous chill from her skin.

The music is blurring into white noise in her ears, and her feet feel like they’re glued to the floor as she flushes warm under that unflinching stare, though for the life of her she can’t make out what’s behind it – if he’d welcome her approach, or rather she kept her distance.

Her hands are trembling, and something hot is unfurling in her stomach, making her feel light-headed and faint. And she doesn’t think of polite words to exchange now, her entire vocabulary forgotten at the memory of the heavy weight of his sceptre and the stone floor at her back – the press of his entire length against her own, and the dark rasp of his voice against her lips. The hand on her hip, _gripping._

The air seems suddenly too thin to breathe.

Dawn is at her side again then, and Marianne jumps, spitting a startled oath at her sister’s sudden appearance.

“Why are you still standing here?”

She grapples for words, and finds none. “I don’t– I’m not–”

Dawn sighs. “Just go over there and talk to him.”

Her voice is a shrill squeak. “And tell him  _what_?”

“Tell him that you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him?”

“I haven’t–”

“Tell him that you regret whatever it was you decided last year that made you tell Dad you’d been  _love dusted_?”

Marianne’s mouth snaps shut at that, but Dawn only raises a brow. “It’s not that simple,” she tries then. “I can’t just –  _Dad_  will –”

“I’ll keep Dad occupied,” Dawn says quietly. “And you know, if I tell him about Sunny he’ll be way too busy losing it to wonder where you are.” She gives her a pointed look. “So…no interruptions this time.”

Her cheeks explode with a flush so violent she’s certain she’s redder than her dress, but she schools her shriek into a furious whisper. “Who says there’s going to be anything to  _interrupt_?”  

“Please. You’ve got that far-away look on your face you used to have with Roland. Don’t even try to tell me you’re not thinking what you are so clearly thinking.”

She wonders if her voice is quite as high as it sounds to her own ears. “Which would be?”

Dawn rolls her eyes. “ _Kissing_?”

She doesn’t release the breath she’s holding, for fear that it would give her away. But oh, bless her baby sister’s innocent heart for being just that, because Marianne doubts she could take it if Dawn knew the things she’s actually thinking about. She’s not far from the truth, of course, but it’s not the thought of a peck of the cheek that has sweat coating the undersides of her wings.  

She tries to laugh, and it sounds too loud – like a startled bark. “You got me,” she says, and prays she doesn’t sound as hysterical as she fears. But Dawn only smiles, and with a small nudge she’s got Marianne lurching forward, woefully unprepared for the gesture, and mortified when her sister laughs at her entirely graceless fumbling.

“ _Go_ ,” Dawn is saying then, before she slides back into the throng, strides light but purposeful as she makes a bee-line for their father.

And left to her own devices and with her sister’s order ringing in her ears, Marianne chances a glance in Bog’s direction.

He’s still looking at her with that indeterminable expression, and for a moment she’s at a loss. She doesn’t know if he’d welcome her advances, if she made any – doesn’t know if he’s been thinking about the same things she has, or if whatever he’d felt towards her once has dwindled back to mere friendly regard. 

She doesn’t know what she expects, but she knows she can’t keep standing where she is, in full view of her entire court, flushed and breathing like she’s flown a mile.

 _Air –_  air seems like a good idea, and the realization of what she is about to do is a slow warmth settling into frigid bones. And she still doesn’t know what she expects, or even if she expects anything at all, but there is undeniable intent in the way she holds his gaze as she makes to move along the edge of the room, weaving between the gathered fairies on feet that are not near so clumsy now.

Then with her destination within sight she drops her eyes from his, a short breath escaping as though she’s been released from a physical hold, but even if she’s not looking at him anymore there’s no mistaking the direction in which she’s going. And if anyone would know, it would be him.

The balcony sits some ways off from the ballroom towards the east wing of the castle, and far enough away from the festivities to ensure that it’s empty when she arrives. Those from the party looking for a breath of fresh air would not venture this far, and there’s a strange comfort in the quiet that wraps around her when she emerges into the cool night. The music from the ballroom is a muted thing at the very edge of her hearing now, drumming in tune with the blood in her ears and the beat of her reckless heart.

But long minutes pass by in silence, and with the slowly creeping chill a small fear starts to take root that Bog won’t follow – that despite his showing up to the ball he’ll keep his distance, and that this is how things will be between them in the future, ruling side by side though they might as well be worlds apart.

Then – a noise behind her, and footfalls that are not her father’s heavy tread or her sister’s feather-light skip, and for all its foolhardy compulsions Marianne’s heart goes very still. White-knuckled hands curl around the balcony railing as she listens to his approach, his strides loud and clear despite the slight hesitance in his step, until he finally comes to a stop.

And she thinks idly that she might have felt more comfortable drawing her sword, with the sheer courage it takes for her to turn and face him empty handed.  

But Bog isn’t armed, and her own blade is back in her chambers, and there’s no hostility in the air between them despite the restlessness that clings like spider-webs to her arms and the base of her wings.

“Hey,” she says, and it’s softer than her voice is wont to be, though she doesn’t feel like a softer person. Quite the opposite, she feels hard and brittle, like she might break under enough pressure, patience thinner than ever and tight knots of tension beneath her skin.

“Hello,” he answers, and – looks about as nervous as she feels, lingering by the entrance with even less surety than she remembers, the last time they’d had this very meeting. Granted, that was before everything had changed, before she’d made that first, reckless move, spurred by some impulse she still doesn’t fully understand, but that she can’t make herself regret.

“It’s, uh – a nice evening,” he tries then, taking a single step forward and clearing his throat in that way of his, and that she’s missed so much her heart clenches in response. “The moonlight is…perfect right now,” he adds, with a gesture towards the silver sphere hanging against the dark backdrop of the starlit sky. And as far as conversational starters go, it’s such a poor one Marianne can’t help the breathy laugh that escapes.  

But – “Yeah. It is,” she agrees, and joy soars within her breast at his earnest attempt, because he’s not avoiding her, and even if this is all she will ever get it is more than she could have hoped for. “I’m – I’m glad you could make it.”

Bog nods, and something like a smile lurks at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been told yeh know how to throw a party. I, ah, wuild not miss the opportunity.”

“Ha,” Marianne breathes. “No, I don’t supposed you would.” He’s not even standing very close, but her palms feel clammy, and she touches a restless hand to the back of her neck. “Though I’m afraid we’re a little lacking in the entertainment department this year.”

That odd half-smile again. “Right. There’s been very little singing.”

 _And public slamming_. Despite herself, a sliver of levity tears loose from the knot in her breast, and she finds herself relaxing a little, so at ease around him, even after everything.

She thinks then, about the crowded ballroom and the people enjoying themselves, finding genuine delight in the song and merriment at the heart of her father’s court. And she thinks of the two of them, removed from the festivities and secluded in their own, quiet corner of the world. She will be Queen one day, and there will be more parties in her reign than she can imagine, and she wonders how lonely her nights will be and how many, nursing her solitude with no one to keep her company.

“The weather is – lovely,” Bog says then, pulling only a small grimace at the word, but his declaration reminds Marianne that for this night, at least, she is not alone.

“For spring,” he adds, as though she’d accuse him of sentimentality if he didn’t. The thought makes her want to smile again, and she’s lost count of how many times he’s managed that in their brief conversation. Or perhaps it’s only her, having forgotten what it’s like to enjoy herself in the company of someone that isn’t her sister.  

She looks at him then, gaze finding a path she knows in her memory, up the jutting rise of his chest to his sharp jaw. A fearsome sight for most of her kind, with their soft chins and smooth edges; their waxy wings like petals for plucking. But her memory has not done him justice, Marianne finds. His eyes are bluer than she remembers, his edges sharper, and he  _towers_. She’d remembered him tall, but she has to angle her head to meet his eyes now. And then she’s in the ballroom again, gaze holding his through the milling crowd, and she feels suddenly short of breath.  

“Yeah. It’s…nice, getting some air,” she hears herself say, and the words sound slurred and fumbling, slipping off her tongue without her consent. “It can get pretty stifling…in…there.” And she wants to pull them back right after she’s spoken them, but they’re out, and she can see the implications carried at their heart as they come to settle in his eyes.

He’s the one looking at her now, and heat pools, so sharp and violent a feeling in the pit of her stomach she feels physically weak from it. And in some dark corner of her mind a thought arises, a sudden realization that drives away her earlier complacency, replacing it with a knowledge that no, she will never be fine with the way things are, will never be alright if all she’s allowed is to be near him but nothing else, nothing more than that for the rest of her life.

The knowledge settles, wraps around her like the spring chill, but she doesn’t cower from it this time; doesn’t let it overwhelm her like she has all year, convincing herself over and over that this is the right thing to do,  _this is how things are supposed to be._   

This time she fights back.

She doesn’t know who makes the first move – if it’s she who steps forward, or if he’s the one to reach for her first, but when the space between them disappears it’s too quick a thing to leave any room for thought, and when she’s winding her arms around his neck his hands are on her hips to help her, claws snagging in the fabric of her dress and gripping hard enough to pull some of the tenseness from her muscles that’s been building for what feels like much longer than a year ( _longer than her whole life_ ). But when she sags against him he doesn’t drop her, rather he pulls her closer, and the thin dress is flimsy protection against the feel of him, flush against her in a way that makes their kiss in the throne room seem prudish in comparison.  

The balcony railing connecting with her back draws a startled yelp from her lips, but then she’s being lifted, hoisted up like she doesn’t weigh a thing until she can rest her weight on it. And it’s far from a comfortable arrangement but she’s too busy marvelling at their new positions and the reach it grants her, fingers grasping his jaw to pull him close, and his mouth is an insistent slant against her own, near bruising and unbearably welcome.

Her dress riding up her thighs may have mortified her once, but the rough drag of his palms against her bare skin strips all coherent through from her mind, until she forgets that she’s pushed up against the balustrade with her dress rucked up around her waist and exposed in a way she’s never been to anyone, not even Roland, for all his attempts.

His thumb comes to brush against the inside of her thigh, and the choking gasp that tears from her lips has his hands stilling, but her head clears quickly enough for her to reach for him when he’s about to pull back, smaller fingers curling over his in a grip that would do little to keep him if he truly wanted to leave, but Marianne hopes it’s enough to convey what she can’t express with words.  

“No – no, please I’m–” and she can’t even finish her own sentence, the murmurs lost against his collar in ragged heaves as she tries to catch her breath. His grip burns and his closeness, such an abrupt change from how things have been, incites a need that is both terrifying and thrilling, with how it stirs a daring in her soul she’s never before touched upon.

The fear of another rejection still lingers, but Bog doesn’t remove his hand, and when he ducks his head back down to kiss her relief jolts through Marianne with a start that has him sucking in a breath, and his low chuckle against her mouth has her biting down on his lip in silent retaliation.

The railing is shockingly cold against her bare skin, but she has no mind for it – has no mind for anything but the feel of his hands on her hips, long fingers spanning the width of them with ease, and this time when he chances a shift of his touch the graze of his fingers makes her buck against him. And she doesn’t know who’s more startled by the reaction, but he isn’t pulling away now, and it’s with deliberate care that his hand inches up, towards a part of her that aches in response, and that makes her want to push herself closer, to close the distance and  _just_   _get it over with stop stalling it’s been a year and he’s stalling and she can’t take it anymore._

The muffled music from the ballroom seems miles away, and she’s having a hard time reminding herself of the danger they’re so shamelessly courting. Anyone could come looking for her, or even for him, and if they’re found now and like this their parting last spring will have been worth nothing, not to mention–

He stops stalling. And with one deliberate swipe of his thumb she’s lost.

Her head lolls back, and wings aside, Marianne thinks she might have toppled over the balcony if he hadn’t been holding her, and the noise that pulls from some dark depth of her being is lewd in the sheer loudness of it – a note like a blade’s edge cleaving the quiet air in a sinful song.

“ _Marianne_ –” and she doesn’t know if it’s a question or a statement or even a warning, but her response is the impulsive tightening of her legs around his wrist, pushing him closer, and the last syllable of her name dissolves into a growl against her skin.

It’s too much – too many sensations all at once and she’s  _teetering_ , swaying and faint and feeling like she’s burning up from within, hands grasping his neck with a fervency that would have scared her witless, had she been in a more lucid state of mind. But oh it’s been so long his touch feels like a relief, the careful strokes near unendurable, pushing at something nameless within her, and it’s with her mouth hot against his and her legs clamped around his wrist that the tension that’s built up  _snaps_  so hard she physically buckles.

It will surprise her later, how little it took to push her over the edge that first time, and she’ll chalk it up to that long year and the frustration she’d not been able to do away with herself, and his hands, rough palms and wicked fingers, and the danger of discovery a potent drug in her blood.

The convulsing shudder that rips through her nearly has her slipping off the railing, but his hand is back on her hip then, holding her in place, and the sudden removal tears a whimper from her throat that has his exhale falling, hot and sharp into the dip of her throat. And she feels like she might pass out, her limbs tingling and useless and beyond her command.

Her brow falls a heavy, lolling weight against his heaving chest, and his hand is quick to tangle in her hair as he cups the back of her head. And Marianne doesn’t know whether to weep or laugh, but she’s shaking – a shivering mess with her skirts hiked up, less like a proper princess than she’s probably ever managed and blessedly uncaring of the fact.  

“Are yeh–” Bog begins then, right at the moment she says,  

“That was–”

And then she is laughing – breathless hiccups that surge up from her belly, until she’s shaking from the sheer force of them. Because she remembers her prim resolution of bridging the gap between them with an offer of friendship, but for all her Queenly efforts at reconciliation, what she’d gotten was something rather different.

“That was – not what I’d expected,” she manages at length, but despite her attempted humour, she feels Bog stiffen.

“If I – I didnae mean–” but she steals the fearful words with the press of her palms against his chest; chases his doubts back to dark nooks and commands them to stay put.

“I love you,” she breathes, the words ringing clear despite the breath forcing itself up her throat still. And oh she’s loved him, she’s loved him for a year and it’s been the worst of her life and she can’t imagine another one – can’t imagine so much as another day in the state she’d been in.

She swallows thickly. “And I wouldn’t let just anyone do –  _that_.” And it’s a truth that resonates, for him perhaps with even greater force than the declaration of her affections.

Bog doesn’t respond at first, but the slight tightening of his arms around her is answer enough, and when his chin comes to rest against the top of her head Marianne’s breath escapes her in a great, shuddering  _whoosh_. Her hands are still pressed against his chest, fingers curling towards her palms, and she searches for the words she knows – the ones she’d tucked away last spring when they’d parted ways, and that she’s nurtured in her ravaged heart for a long, long winter, revealed to no one but herself, late at night when she’d lay awake with her regrets.

“I will be Queen,” she’s saying then, and she can feel in his arms going tense what he expects her to say next, and so she’s quick to add, “But I’ll choose my own King.”

She can’t see the expression that crosses his face, but she hears that sharp intake – a sound that would have made her smile, but for the fact that she’s genuinely terrified of his response to her next admission, softly but firmly uttered against his chest–

“And I don’t want anyone else.”

It’s the most she’s ever given of herself – a confession that holds her still-healing heart in trembling fingers, and if he were to turn away from her now she doesn’t think she’d ever fully recover.

But his hand is beneath her chin then, lifting her gaze to his, and when he curves his palm against her head Marianne leans into the touch.

“I won’t be a fool again,” he says then, voice rough with sentiment, and when his hand dips into her hair her eyes slip closed. The dahlia is long gone, trampled under their mindless steps and leaving her hair a wild tangle, the strands clinging to her forehead slick with sweat. And after what they’ve just done she thinks part of her ought to feel ashamed, or even slightly embarrassed, but there is only a soft contentment, warm and mellow and reaching to fill every crack and fissure, and to mend every brittle bone.

The balcony is quiet, but no one has come to look for them, drawn by the noise they must have made, and the muffled beat of the music from the ballroom reaches towards them with an almost comical innocence, those inside oblivious to the world beyond the castle walls. Their world, tonight, and their dark corner, if only for a little while longer.

“We should be getting back,” Bog says then, and Marianne sighs.

“Yeah. Even Dawn will start wondering where we are.” But she makes no move to slip down from the balcony, and he doesn’t step away from her. She feels light as air and boneless, and so she doesn’t miss the way he tenses up. And she knows what he’s about to say before he does.

“Your father–” he begins, but stops, and she catches his hand, sinful thing that it is with the memory of his previous use of it, but now she curves her fingers around his with an intent that is nothing but comforting.

“I’ve made my choice,” she says. “And he’ll respect that. He might not understand it, but he wants me to be happy, and…you’re what makes me happy.”

Bog is quiet a moment, studying her face, and she can see the passing of his thoughts behind his eyes. “And your court?” he asks then. “Your subjects?”

“Should all be thankful they’re not getting  _Roland_  for King,” she answers glibly, and with only a lingering memory of annoyance. She doesn’t think much of Roland these days.

She sighs then. “I was always going to be different,” she adds with a shrug, but the truth of it doesn’t sting, as it once had. She’s come to terms with her differences, and the wild spirit that drives her. She has miles to go yet before she’ll be Queen in more than just name, but her differences are hers to keep, just like him.  

But despite the somewhat self-deprecating statement, Bog only smiles, that rare stretch of the lips that reaches his eyes. “That’s what ah like,” he says, and with such fervour she has to laugh, the sound pulling free of her lungs in a trilling lilt that only makes his smile widen in turn.

“So,” she says then. “You ready to do this? No turning back this time.”

“Screw the consequences?” Bog tries drily, and in her mirth Marianne finds a brilliant smile.

“Not  _screw_ , exactly. Maybe just…deal with them as they come? Whatever they are.”

He hums, but – “That sounds like a feasible venture,” he agrees, and Marianne’s heart soars.

“Come on,” she says, sliding from the balustrade and tugging the skirt of her dress down with a foolish smile she has trouble containing. Her knees feel pleasantly weak, and her thighs ache from sitting so long on the railing, but she’s full of some giddy delight that will surely draw gazes as much as her rumpled dress. But if she’s flushed and dishevelled she prays anyone who makes note of it will credit it to vigorous dancing, and not something else, equally vigorous but perhaps not quite as virtuous.

She holds out her hand then, and she can see that he contemplates the choice, even now – the wisdom of their decision this night, compared to the one that had resulted in their parting the previous year.

“It won’t be a Spring Ball until I cause some sort of spectacle,” she quips, with a meaningful raise of her brows. “What do you say we make this one trump last year’s? An announcement like this should do the trick.”

He laughs at that – a deep-bellied thing she can’t believe is her doing – before his larger hand comes to wrap around hers. “Will yeh be singing?”

Making their way back inside, the chill soothing to something warmer as they pass through the arching doorway and into the castle interior, Marianne hums. “Oh, I don’t know. I might.” Offering him a meaningful glance, she adds, “I distinctly remember you saying you didn’t mind my singing?” But though she means for the words to sound light – to remind him of that first, wonderfully awkward conversation that had started it all – there is a darkly sensual undertone that curls sweet and sticky on her tongue, in that it brings to mind an entirely different kind of song.

His chuckle is a warm kiss against her hair. “Right yeh are.”

It’s a statement softly uttered, but she hears the promise that sits behind the words – the assurance that despite her many faults and oddities, and for all the challenges that awaits the one who chooses her, he’d still make the choice. And it’s all she’s ever wanted and more than she’s deserved, and now that she has it she resolves to keep it. She’s had her heart broken twice – once by someone who wanted her for her crown, and the second time by one unwilling to jeopardize her claim to it. But it’s a part of her and who she will one day be, though the thought of bearing the weight of it alone doesn’t seem half as appealing as it once had.

But she’s not alone anymore, she knows by the hand curled around hers, half-pulling, half-nudging her along the winding corridors and drawing laughter from her heart when she mock relents. And the music doesn’t seem so discouraging as it had, nor the waiting crowd quite so daunting.

And she feels then, like she could brave the entire realm, crownless still and bare-handed, so long as he’d be at her side.


	7. New Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the end, folks! Thank you for sticking around for this wee adventure. I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I have enjoyed writing it <3

The ballroom welcomes them back, oblivious to their dealings in the dark. The music pulls them in, wraps around them with the merriment he remembers from his earlier arrival. But Bog doesn’t shy from it now – doesn’t pull back to his dark corners. Not with her eyes bright under the fairy lights above, and her smile for him and no one else.

Her hand hangs by her side, slender fingers twitching from his earlier touch, but they’re walking side by side now, keeping a polite distance that hides their secrets, though the flush in her cheeks has not wholly relented and she keeps sneaking what he suspects she thinks are covert glances.

Bog can only shake his head, but the lightness in his chest turns heavy with dread upon their entry, when he spots the Fairy King across the room.

Beside him, Marianne draws a breath. “Well. I guess this is it.”  

“Yeh don’t have to do it now,” he reminds her, keeping his voice low despite the music that seems to swallow every breath and heartbeat. Because the wariness persists, even with her smile and her blush and the memory of her on that balcony railing, allowing him a nearness that seems inconceivable now, so far from the silence and the feel of her. Their dark corner.

But Marianne shakes her head. “No, I – I want to say it now. I wasted a whole year not saying anything.” She looks at him, and Bog sees the regret that he’s felt himself. It’s going to take time to let go of it, but it’s a start, what they’ve got now, even if he can’t quite believe it. He’d had no expectations in coming to the Spring Ball, aside from perhaps talking. He’d hoped she’d be willing to forgive, if not forget what had happened between them. For the sake of their future dealings, if nothing else.

But he hadn’t expected the things the sight of her would dredge up – a longing so potent it had all but knocked his feet out from under him, watching her step out into the ballroom with that odd, hesitant grace. Her silent invitation to follow had sparked an inkling, the barest of hopes, but even as he’d stepped out onto the balcony he’d held himself back. One last, pitiful attempt at self-preservation, though she’d already had his heart in her hands and part of him had known he wouldn’t be walking away unscathed.

He’d prepared for a stumbling conversation. What had happened instead had been – surprising, to say the least, and he might have felt ashamed once, at displaying such a blatant lack of control, but the way she’d felt against him, that foreign softness and the  _heat_ –

“I think I’m ready,” she says, in that breathless voice that makes him want to flee, if only to escape the eyes of the room because he’s certain his thoughts are vivid on his face. And it’s not the time and it’s definitely not the place, but he can’t shake the memory of the feel of her around his fingers,  _clenching_ –

“A-aye, let’s go! Good idea. Let’s just – go.”

A strange look crosses her face – bemusement putting a wrinkle between her brows. “Thinking dark thoughts?” she asks, and Bog doesn’t know whether to laugh or hit himself. 

_Oh, you have nae idea._  But, “Only the usual,” he says. “Dark thoughts fit for a dark King.” And it sounds convincingly self-deprecating, though that might just be because it’s such a knee-jerk response.  

If she suspects what he’d been thinking of, Marianne doesn’t show it. Instead she casts a glance at the ceiling, and the low-hanging lights. “Yeah, you do a pretty good job maintaining that image in here. One day you’ve got to tell me your secret,” she says, with a soft laugh that doesn’t exactly help pull his thoughts back to anything resembling decorum.

“Ah’ll tell yeh all the secrets yeh wish to know, Tough Girl,” he says then, with a sincerity that surprises him. And her, by the slight widening of her eyes.

She ducks her head then, but not before he catches the smile, and then she’s clearing her throat. “Okay. So. We’re going.” She draws another breath, settling her gaze on her father and sister on the far side of the ballroom.

“Looks like Dawn made good on her promise,” comes her murmur then, and Bog watches the frown as it pulls on her brows. And her courage slips, if only for a moment, before she steels herself, shoulders straightening ever so slightly as she lifts her chin.

It’s a stunning sight, but she’s moving before he has the chance to tell her, red skirts flaring as she makes to cross the room. And the gathered crowd moulds against her, shifts and bends to allow her passage, and Bog wonders idly if she’s even aware of it; if she knows just how much her presence commands. 

He follows at a careful distance, and they move to allow him to pass, too, though from the looks on their faces he suspects for an entirely different reason.

Approaching the royal family, he picks out their voices, rising above the music and the chatter–

“–believe you’re just now telling me! And an  _elf_ of all things _._ ”

The younger princess has her arms crossed, lips pressed in an eerie mirror of her elder sibling, though Bog is not about to point out the resemblance, uncanny though the sight is, for all their differences.

“Dad,” Marianne tries, with more calm than Bog has ever heard. Opting for diplomacy now and not the butt of her sword, perhaps for her own sake as much as her sister’s. He wonders how long  _that_  will last. “Give her a break, okay? She’s happy, and Sunny treats her well.”

The Fairy King turns his attention from his youngest. “You knew about this?” Then he sighs. “What am I saying? Of course you knew.” He looks between them. “And this has been going on a whole year? Right under my nose?”

The two share a look, before Marianne stutters, “Well it’s not like they were  _hiding_  it, they were just…” she fumbles for words. “Not talking about it?”

Dawn sighs. “Thanks, Marianne, but I can take it from here. I can speak for myself, you know.”

“Yeah and that’s going well, I could hear you two yelling from across the room.” 

“Well if he would just  _listen_ –” But it’s a subject that’s been exhausted already, Bog can tell, and so the wee blonde fairy only huffs. “I’m going to go  _dance_ ,” she announces then, with the same amount of rebellion Bog remembers once levelling at his own mother, though his own threat had not involved dancing. 

“And I’m going to enjoy myself!” she throws over her shoulder, before the crowd swallows her up, leaving her father with an old sigh on his tongue and a slump to his shoulders. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and grumbles something about  _daughters_  that’s too low to pluck from between the beat of the music.

Marianne is hesitating now, Bog sees – no doubt contemplating if it’s the best time to bring up the subject of their own involvement. And he wouldn’t begrudge her postponing it. Part of him expects it, he finds, which is why he’s surprised when she doesn’t back down.

“Dad, I’ve got – something to say.” She looks at him where he stands, at an awkward distance, and though she doesn’t reach out a hand her smile beckons him closer, and the next words off her tongue has some strange, bold feeling taking hold of him.

“Actually… _we’ve_  got something to say.”

The Fairy King has turned his attention to them now, and Bog feels the full weight of a father’s gaze in a way that brings him back long years, to his own father’s reign, when the King of the Fairies was less grey, and had a little less stomach to speak of. He’d been a formidable presence upon his rare visits, but though the years have turned him soft around the edges there is a hardness in his eyes that speaks of a protective heart not to be taken lightly. 

But – “Have you two sorted things out?” he asks then, and all of Bog’s thoughts flee on skittering feet. 

Mouth agape, it’s clear that she’d prepared something of a speech, but all Marianne manages is, “What?”

The Fairy King gives her a patient look. “I suspected something was amiss last spring,” he declares, one brow lifting with the wry awareness of one who knows his daughter well. “But you weren’t exactly willing to talk about it. So I thought I’d let you handle it yourself. As you so often remind me, you are more than capable.” And there is humour there, underlying the fondly chiding tone.

Marianne looks at Bog, then at her father. “Wait. You mean–” and she looks about as surprised as Bog feels. “You  _knew_?”

The Fairy King shrugs. “A father knows these things,” he says, then adds with a soft grumble, “Well. Some things. I didn’t know about your sister.”

Marianne is shaking her head, though it’s unclear exactly to what. “But – you’re okay? With this, with – us?” And if he weren’t so at a complete loss for words, Bog would have seconded her astonishment. 

The Fairy King looks at him then, gaze searching, before asking Marianne, “You don’t want to hit him?”

Bog frowns, but a laugh pulls from her lips, then – a startled thing that tells him there’s something he’s not privy to. And then she looks at him, eyes twinkling, before declaring with an entirely straight face, “Sometimes I want to hit him.”

Her father shakes his head, but he’s smiling, though Bog has trouble keeping up with the conversation. He’d expected resistance – something similar to his reaction to the youngest princess’ involvement with the elf, if not even more vitriolic. Not…this.

“So long as you are happy,” the King tells her, reaching to touch the side of her face; gentle fingers brushing against her unruly hair with an almost sorrowful reverence. “And not like you’ve been this past year. I don’t think my heart could bear another.”

She sucks in a breath at that, and when she smiles it trembles. “Well, I did find a King, like you said.”

The King laughs – a wild bark of a sound that cuts through the din. “And I am eating my own words, it seems. Though I should have expected as much, with the daughters I have.” But he’s smiling still, when he adds, “You have a steady heart, my dear. If this is the path it’s chosen, I won’t keep you from it.”

Bog doesn’t know if he’s expected to say something, but he doesn’t think he could have managed if asked.

“You sure you didn’t wish you had boys?” Marianne asks then, grasping for wit when nothing else presents itself, but there’s a thickness to her words that betrays her attempted humour.

But the King only reaches for her hands, fretting as they are at the front of her skirts, before he draws her to him, placing a kiss to her brow with a fierce whisper, “ _Never_.”

Then, “You’ll care for her,” he tells Bog firmly. “She’s a handful.”

A laugh like a sob trickles from her tongue. “Gee, Dad. Thanks.”

Bog only smiles. “Aye.”

The King looks at them then, side by side with the crowd at their backs, and Bog wonders what he sees – what future he envisions, and how much it differs from one he might have considered once, when she’d been engaged last.  

But there’s no disgust in his eyes, only a searching look that holds the wariness of all fathers.

“I have to go and talk to your sister,” he says then, with a sigh. “You’ve got your mother’s stubbornness, the both of you.” But he doesn’t appear to be too upset at the fact, as he turns to leave to look for his youngest.

“Hey,” Marianne says, stopping him. “At least she’s not flirting with everything that moves?”

The King snorts. “There is that,” he says, with a drollness that promises acceptance, and Bog watches Marianne’s shoulders relax.

Then he’s walking away, leaving them at the edge of the crowd, and a deep breath escapes her that Bog feels more than hears, and it alerts him to the fact that they’ve moved closer – too close for polite acquaintances now, but despite the restless worry that still lingers, he’s loath to move away.

“So. That’s the second thing that didn’t go like I thought it would,” Marianne says then, with a meaningful look that tugs his smile into something far too wicked for the public eye.

“Yeah,” he says simply, but doesn’t speak the things he finds in her eyes – thoughts better suited for private spaces. He swallows past the dryness in his throat, and curls his fingers to keep them from reaching to touch her, if only to draw the same noise from her lips as he’d managed, with that soft, wet warmth around him.

Marianne clears her throat then, and looks away, hiding a smile that tells him his are not the only thoughts that have taken such a turn. And Bog spares a wary glance at the room, wondering with a surge of dread if anyone else have made note of their less-than surreptitious behaviour.  

“Worried?” she asks, soft words hiding more than her eyes, and Bog can tell there are concerns she won’t voice, about his own feelings. They’d expected a battle but found only victory – not surrender, exactly, but there’d been no resistance. And for wilful creatures like them, used to opposition as they are, it’s hard to believe in acceptance when it’s laid at their feet.

He thinks of her father, and her court, and wonders whether they’ll find that same acceptance in their eyes, or just the opposite. And his own people? Aside from his mother, he can’t even begin to guess, and it will take time, no doubt, for the news to settle, and for their peoples to adapt to the thought, let alone the truth. Perhaps they ought to keep a low profile, for now.

“We’ll deal with worries at a later date,” he says, though he doesn’t know whether it’s for her sake, or his own. “For now let’s just…enjoy the ball.”

Her brows raise at the suggestion that there’s going to be enjoyment involved, with his notorious dislike of the event in question. But she must find something else than contempt in his eyes, because then she’s reaching for his hand, winding her fingers through his before he can pull away, and it’s such a –  _public_  display it steals his breath.

“Yeah,” she says, smile taking on an impish edge. “Let’s enjoy the ball.”

They’re out in the open, in the midst of the churning turmoil of song and dance at the bright and merry heart of her kingdom. There are no dark corners here, and no secluded balconies on which to hide away. Instead they are at the mercy of a hundred gazes; the curious murmurs below the drum of the band, and the promise of wicked gossip to last both their lifetimes. 

But for all of these things, and with the eyes of her court and subjects on her back, Marianne does something Bog would never have considered a possibility. Not in this or any life, with him as he is, the dark king, and with her, the fae princess with the world at her feet. Their union should raise more than curious brows, and cause worse reactions still, but it’s with the tune of a song curled on her tongue that she rises to the tips of her toes now, slender hands settling around his neck as her eyes slip shut. And with her lips parted in a smile bright enough to reach every dark and forgotten crevice of his ravaged soul–

–she kisses him.


End file.
